In his heart he hated those lost souls who watched him with thankful eyes and found hidden ideas and meanings in his works that had never even crossed his mind. Some even bothered to giddily approach and tell him how their lives had been changed thanks to him.
These pathetic wretches would stop at nothing, he thought, grasping at anything to avoid hearing that there is no fix, that the world is broken and we are, at best, here to hold the line for the next ninety years, just to be told the main event had been canceled. They'll wipe their asses with clever ass wipes and sing praises to the ‘here and now,’ all the while not realizing that they are fading out of existence, never catching the scent of their own rotting flesh.
In sober moments he would switch to ‘isolate’ mode on Minds and delve into darker and blacker thoughts, shielded from foreign minds over the net.
His books were nothing more than soaps sprinkled with grains of chewed up parlor philosophies. Robin would round up the hottest issues trending with Minds users and whip them into cautionary-tale novels. The characters were thin, the plots thinner, but his readers were hooked. The glorified author provided a perfect alibi to the millions who were looking to unload their accountability for a life lived without choice.
To his astonishment, what the intellectual elite labeled ‘digitrash’ became a runaway success. People identified with the characters in a torrent of supportive thoughtmits and purchases that launched his books up the global bestseller charts. In conversations with his beloved Liv, he would half-heartedly agree with her observation that his works were basically an assortment of short, catchy phrases collected under oversized images, like children’s books used to be. He hated remembering one particular conversation they had shortly before a book launch, but still felt compelled to revisit it.
"Liv, did you like it?" he asked eagerly.
"It's going to do well," she predicted and avoided his compliment-thirsty eyes.
"You didn't say if you liked it or not. I didn't ask if it’ll sell."
"Yes, I like it. It's very accessible, some very catchy phrases."
Robin kept silent for several seconds. "Yeah, I actually wrote it for kids. I'm glad you like it," he answered and hurried off to another room, not wanting her to notice his disappointment.
He could still hear her shouting from the other room, "And I'm sure it’ll do great and that's what counts!"
The book was never mentioned again. Nevertheless, he told himself it was also meant to be read by kids, that they, too, were entitled to his brand of wisdom, and if they connected with it, all the better.
"What did Liv say about the book?" he was asked in an interview.
"She thinks it will be a great success," he answered enthusiastically.
"The most important thing to have is a supporting family," the interviewer declared. "You're a lucky man."
"Absolutely," he agreed and changed the subject.
And the book did do much better than expected. Parents came in droves to acquire a piece of his accessible simplicity. When the monthly bill from Minds arrived, his balance sheet showed enough credit to cover a lifetime of free unlimited access to network services
[1] .
His books were available for direct projection on any smart surface, and live thought comments from other readers ran in the space below his words. The discussion was animated and insightful, but more importantly, sales were stacking up in the millions.
The tortured writer forced a chuckle that quickly deteriorated into a dry cough, which made him think about his health. The Robin Nice: Health Status application instantaneously lit up and began to monitor all his key physical parameters. Everything seemed fine. The room was so quiet he could hear his heartbeat quicken. “Just a minor passing cold,” the app assured him.
His glass was empty. Laboriously, he got up to pour another. A light vertigo came on as he raised his head and he had to hold on to the back of the chair. No, he was not lacking inspiration. The time he wasted staring at the text was nothing but self-defiance. He could not think about why he was writing, or for whom. He sat and thought. The letters forming in his mind were dictated to Minds and appeared as a jumble of senseless words on the wall. The thought transmission cursor, his heartbeat, frantic thoughts - all were his enemies. In recent years, silence had become a declining resource, like polar bears clinging to fading icebergs.
Mornings were the hardest on Robin, when these cursed thoughts rose to the surface. More accurately still, he detested them. Mornings came and flooded the day with a strong sun, and he felt like nothing worthwhile could be accomplished.
"This light is making me an idiot!" he shouted at the owls, and they rushed over to form a fluttering canopy. "Evening mode," he whispered, and Minds instantly granted his request: the rays of sun were blocked, and a darker mood enveloped the space. The digital stridulation of crickets sounded. It was Robin's favorite ambient sound, always reminding him there was life outside.
He spent his days shut in, meticulously grooming himself. On the outside, his home appeared to be a modest dwelling, or even a plain wooden cabin, nothing to betray the science that went on inside. Robin religiously adhered to his body care routine. His day usually began with a vasodilating cherry drink. He was daunted by physical frailness and maintained a steady supply of the reddish beverage.
He would then proceed to his fully equipped audio operated shower, which had water flowing down from the ceiling on command at a precisely set pressure and temperature; sound effects specially developed for shower vocalists all contributed to a tropical jungle experience. He took special care to shower only in water rich with vitamins and minerals. After the shower, his tending owls would massage his body, apply self-spreading granules, scrape off any dead skin tissue, and top it off with a head to toe rub using fish oil or molecular body butter, accompanied by a complimentary circular massage.
The owls were programmed for a range of massage techniques they administered with their delicate feet, and could even hum his choice of music. They could repeat perfectly any tune after listening to it only once. When word of this feature got around, the creatures became the number one sellers in the market.
While receiving his morning massage, Robin transmitted a thought to Frank Reel, the coordinator of editor-comments on his new book, who had just finished moderating a heated brainstorm concerning the choice of book cover. Ordinarily it would be a cathartic moment, the time right before he released yet another carefully designed and content free creation. He always went with covers that conveyed light, hope and optimism, and in them he planted what he considered to be a surprising twist. Like the one time when he cast himself as a newborn delivered out of the sun, or when he dedicated a book cover to the memory of his late wife and used a blurred photograph of her in the background, making the book an instant bestseller – as expected. Empathy cashed in. Everything was premeditated, up to the point where he seemed to believe it himself.
For some reason Robin again encountered a communication failure, and the outgoing thought to Frank Reel did not reach its destination. Strange, he thought. He always had a direct channel to Frank's mind, a perk that came with the elevated status he enjoyed in the community. On his second try, his attempt landed him faced with a wall, personified by Frank's personal virtual agent, who refused to acknowledge his privileged status. He set his owls on a pedicure assignment trimming his toenails while the pleasant voice kept him occupied.
"Good morning. Melanie, Frank Reel's personal agent at your service. I'm sorry, but the system does not recognize you."
"Robin Nice," he responded with the full confidence and clarity of someone proud of the name, its resonance and gravity.
"I am sorry, there seems to be a connectivity issue that prevents me from confirming your identity. How may I be of assistance?"
"I normally deal directly with Reel, so I'm not really sure why I've been put through to you."
"Good morning, Mr. Anonymous. I am unable to connect you with Mr. Reel. Please
try again later."
"I'm not Mr. Anonymous." He was starting to get annoyed. "I have a book coming out and we’re scheduled to talk today and –"
"You cannot be connected to Mr. Reel. Please try again at a later time." The voice cut him off again.
"What later time? There is no later time! Am I not getting through to you?"
"Thank you for calling and have an enlightened and marvelous day."
"Marvelous day, my ass! Put him through, for crying out loud!"
"There is no need for vulgarity. Thank you for calling and have an enlightened and marvelous day."
Robin slammed the thought channel with a clenched fist, though not before sending her a vehement thought: "You damn bitch!" The sudden movement caused one of the owls to accidentally bite into the tip of a toe. "Look what you did! Ugh!" Robin lunged a fist at the owl, missed it and hit the flickering digital surface instead, which only exacerbated his agony. "Now I'm bleeding. Go get some cotton pads and disinfectant and fix this now! What's going on here today? I can't get any call through… moronic voices in my head… I need a thought tech right this instant!"
The owl hooted a stifled hoot and drifted out of the digital spa background that enclosed the space, leaving another owl to stare pensively at Robin, exhausted from his thought wars. Robin looked back and considered how easy it must be being a digital owl.
Interfering with his thought frequencies, cutting him off from the world... there was no one he could talk to. The thought technician didn't show up, even after he left him a manual voice message in the antiquated messaging technology reserved for such cases. All his attempts to mentally locate Emily were useless. He couldn't even establish a basic frequency to generate her image. He sensed that all his communication channels were blocked, and slumped down in defeat. The effects of a full massage failed to show on his stressed and hunched body. Was it a localized problem? Could others be experiencing this sordid affair? As he was sitting and staring at an imaginary spot on his award covered wall, an owl looked at him with compassion. Robin knew the digital creatures were programmed to express empathy for the mental state of their owner, but his self-pity only aggravated the embarrassment.
He felt beaten, which was no fun at his advanced age. His little neo-owl reflected a profound sadness and its tiny head drooped. Robin turned the other way.
***
It was time for Robin to get ready for a book promotion interview on Great Minds, a Minds show that collected the best thoughts from around the web and shared them with millions of viewers.
His injured toe had been adequately patched up, and Robin decided he should go out for a stroll before the interview. It had been a while since he last left the cozy confines of his home. He felt the need to empty his thoughts and recharge before the meeting of minds with the interviewer, a senior reporter for the Global Journal of Lyricism, the leading culture magazine that was edited in real time by its 40,000 users, and simultaneously translated into 120 languages.
He had a fetish for sunsets and sunrises, so he set his Sky app
[2] to display the sun going either up or down every hour. "I love smelling nature," he confessed in an interview. "The fresh scent of waterfalls, pine trees, cherry blossoms and dew drops. I also take great joy in watching adorable magical creatures, soft and gorgeous red pandas cross bred with koalas, hybrids of small white raccoons and foxes, super-sized squirrels in deep maroon colors. They might all be digital creatures introduced into our physical environment, but to me they’re just as real. I love to stroll along shaded boulevards, passing Eugenia and coffee trees, tall coconuts, and also cacao trees and lychees. It's a wild domain I adjusted for myself and I take great pleasure walking inside it."
He did not spend as much time as he used to in the world he created. Even now, he preferred to sink into the plush seat of his Ferrari, signal the garage window open with a remote, and fly out of the house. It was a wonderful day for a ride, thanks to the ‘Partly Cloudy +’ mode on Sky, preset with his favorite temperature of 70o, the climate he always walked in, regardless of the actual conditions outside. It went well with his cloudy and sticky personality, the kind that could compliment anyone and avoid being single-minded about anything.
Neocars were highly customized personal flying vehicles which were designed on request and even projected personalized advertisements. The cars operated on an autonomous network that skillfully navigated their movements without requiring human intervention.
What Robin saw as his car cruised through the sky were buildings shaped like soda bottles, bubbles drifting where clouds should have been, and ice cubes dotting the hedges everywhere where shrubs should have been - a grotesque combination of branded reality with a surreal imagery, of which Robin had become genuinely fond. He even shared this imagery with loved ones.
He jetted above perfectly green and geometric parks, with trimmed trees fashioned and arranged like a natural assembly of troops - every leaf in position, every flower perfectly coded. This kind of view relaxed him. The digitally rendered rural landscape moved him to tears, and he did not cry often.
"I've never seen you cry," Liv said suddenly when they were flying along a meticulously maintained boulevard.
"What, you're telling me that I never cried?"
"Not that I recall," she said and looked out the window, her hair playing in the wind.
"I guess I had no reason to," he said.
"You will, you'll cry like a big baby," she promised.
"You think?"
"I know so."
"So you want me to cry."
"I want you to let it out a little, to see that it's not so bad, it's even healthy."
"I promise to try," he said and took in the scent of her vibrant hair. It had a natural floral bouquet which could easily make him dizzy.
"I hope to see that day," she said and held his hand.
She didn't, Robin thought now in sadness.
The fact that the sterile pastoral scene was an enhanced reality which only existed in his head never bothered him. And who was to dispute what his eyes told him was real? Gliding at a low altitude, his fingers reached for a flower, plucked it and pulled it closer to his nose. His eyes closed for a moment.
Some days, he would go for a walk and stop to look at the neighbors' digital koala hugging trees in the garden. It made him euphoric. Endorphins flooded his bloodstream at the sight of the small coded lump which carried no meaning whatsoever. For someone who seldom left his self-sufficient home to stroll in the green lawns outside, this was a thrill. Even physical exercise was no excuse to leave the house, since he could run the Marathon Mindsphere and turn his house into a veritable track, with optional scorching sun and rolling terrain.
Every night he would let the day's thoughts float up to his private Cloud and clear his mind. This allowed him to start every new day without carrying over overbearing thoughts from the day before, and he could always connect to the Cloud and recall them if he needed to. No spiritual sustenance could compare to one's own vast mind.
God is in the Shoe Details
Before the interview, Robin stocked up on clichéd phrases sent from his head to appear on the wall of his study: ‘Happiness is an attainable goal,’ ‘Happiness can be achieved through perseverance and self-discipline,’ ‘You must share a percentage of your achievements with others,’ ‘Change your body and the rest will follow,’ ‘Change starts with the mind.’
Personally, he felt contempt for such views and indifference toward all these interviews that repeated the same general line. Even trendsetters were mostly unimaginative and accepted the smiling guru package he sold without asking anything challenging. Nevertheless, he always made sure to look his best for his online appearances, broadcast live to millions of minds. He instructed the Clothes app to display an elegant suit and an expensive, colorful necktie to go along with it. He wanted to project something serious, yet bon vivant; creativity and polished shoes to match. He believed God was in the details, in the shoelaces
. Appearances came first for him. In actuality, he was wearing only underclothes – his shorts and a sleeveless shirt – but through Minds, the world saw an impressive gentleman wearing his finest garments.
Robin tried running the Community Party Mindsphere. This time, it worked! He took a deep breath, trying to reduce his anxiety, and mentally tuned in to the public interview channel. Serene, accustomed, excited on the outside, he saw himself standing on the stage of a luxurious convention hall that existed only for the purpose of the interview, and the walls were flickering with the various awards he had won over the years.
"Excellent morning, Robin Nice."
It was the voice of Jack Smart from the Global Journal of Lyricism. Smart's image was shimmering in front of him, with countless images of the home audience behind, hovering in Robin's room.
"Good morning, Jack. What a beautiful day. Much better to cruise through the worlds of Minds than interview an old man like me, wouldn't you say?" he said, trying to be humorous.
"Yes, of course. But you know, our millions of viewers will be asking for my head if I don't speak with you."
"Thank you. Thank you very much indeed," he answered in the false tone he reserved for such tiresome verbal foreplay.
"So, where shall we begin? Perhaps you'd like to tell us what made you write another book - which is due next month – Discovering Neuro-Bliss?"
"Gladly…" he said, and suddenly felt a loss of control. He heard piercing noises, shrieks inside his head. A light vertigo ensued and his voice helplessly blurted off script: "To be honest, I actually wanted to make a killing. My readers helped me become rich, and I felt I needed more money in the bank after buying a couple of houses…"
"Robin?!"
"Between you and me, I don't give a flying fuck about light, love, happiness and all that. It's all a joke. Happiness? It's not like we're ever going to get there. It's a pathetic fiction after all, but you know, people eat up the bullshit I serve, so why should I stop?"
Netopia: A Thrilling Dystopian Novel (Science Fiction & Action) Page 2
