by Saul Garnell
The bars over the largest window, the one Allen was most drawn to, somewhat obscured the New York skyline. Though not an exceptional view, it brought him some relief from the otherwise dismal surroundings, so much so that he hadn’t noticed his friend Carl, who had sat down next to him. Carl, already a veteran patient, was not what you would expect given his surroundings. Wearing a pristine button-down shirt and dress pants, he appeared very clean cut with straight black hair, light skin, and thick glasses.
“Hey there!” Carl said.
“What?” Allen said, startled. “Oh, am I in the way?”
“No, I just thought I’d join you,” Carl said, smiling broadly.
Allen knew Carl from his first few days at the institute. They had shared several conversations and Allen had come to see that Carl wasn’t really insane. Just another lost soul like himself.
Noticing his mood, Carl tapped him on the shoulder and gesticulated toward a group in the corner arguing over stuffed animals. “Cheer up. You should be happy you’re not messed up like those guys.”
Allen smirked a little with appreciation. Honestly, he didn’t feel like talking all that much, and continued to gaze outside and daydream. Carl accompanied him with friendly stagnation, both doing nothing until Allen finally spoke up.
“Not sure what this world has become,” Allen said, looking aimlessly outside. “Just because people don’t fit in, does it make sense to put them in a place like this, and fill them up with drugs? I thought I was ill. But now...now I’m not sure if it’s me or the world that needs curing.”
Carl nodded. “I know what you mean. It’s one crazy dream, just smoldering and ready to explode.”
Allen nodded. He looked at Carl with admiration, and realized how relaxing he was to talk to. A true friend in a sea of psychiatric chaos.
Carl said, “It really bugs me, man. Being out there, I mean. Feels like I don’t belong. And I actually thought this would help. You know, the therapy and all.”
Allen wasn’t sure what to make of Carl’s statements. Allen himself had hoped the treatments would be affective. Cure his homosexuality and turn him into a proper citizen that society would recognize and accept. It never occurred to him that he might never be cured. That it was nothing but a false premise.
Carl went on. “Can you believe we did this to ourselves? Don’t you think it’s ironic? You and I both were asked to come here in order to be cured. We actually believed them. What a joke!”
Allen was disheartened. “Do you think it’s hopeless?”
Turning briefly and looking with disgust at the other patients, Carl shook his head. “Well, for starters, I don’t think the doctors have any idea what they’re doing.”
Allen considered that for a few moments. “Do you believe that? I want to give them a chance. Maybe they’ll find some technique that’ll be effective.”
Carl shook his head. “I’ve done everything: insulin, electroshock, psychoanalysis, Metrazol...”
“And?”
“And nothing. Well, sometimes the insulin high is pretty wild, but I’m the same after it’s all over.
Allen peered down at the floor and despaired. “I hoped the psychoanalysis would cure me. But the doctors...well, the doctors so far don’t seem to even care.”
Carl smiled again. “Actually they’re a bunch of idiots. They go to school and learn medicine, but it doesn’t add up to much. If they could cure people, then they would.”
Carl looked around the room and pointed with his chin. One patient, an old-timer, was blubbering to himself about government stalkers, who inexplicably wanted to experiment on him. It was the same set of chilling stories that everyone on the floor knew, but ignored.
“That guy is really sick,” Carl said. “He’s been here for years, and is no better off than the day he set foot in the door. And you know, the world outside is no different. People will say and do all sorts of things in your supposed best interest. But in the end, a person can only help himself by changing his personality. If you change it in a good way, you fit in just fine. If not...well, then you end up in here like us.”
Allen listened intently. What Carl explained felt right in many ways. At least, it was a more truthful conversation than he had had with any doctor. But what if it was true? Would they ever leave? Carl didn’t want to think about that too much. But ignoring it also seemed futile. His entire life began to circulate within his head. Like some nightmare serpent, vile images flashed by and forced his conversation outward.
“Maybe they’ll just keep us here and throw away the key. We’ll die in this place.”
“No way!” Carl cried defiantly. “We’ll get out! You’ll see.”
“And then what,” Allen demanded. “Tossed back out there, back into the machine.”
Carl slapped his knee hard. “We fight against Moloch,” he rasped through gritted teeth. “With writing, art... with Dadaism!”
Allen fell deeper into their discussion. Earlier, he felt disjointed by sensations of unwanted reality. But the emotions that now fumed between them were addicting. Like a strong fix, hazy feelings of misery and despair were swept away by Carl’s deep passion for life. It was an ocean, which opened up and washed over his naked form. And he needed more. The two nudged their chairs close together.
Looking at Carl with deep conviction, Allen said, “What do you think about...poetry?”
“Exactly! That’s precisely what I mean!” Carl said, pointing at Allen with his stiletto-like index finger.
One of the nurses observing from across the room stepped closer and warned in a deep voice, “Watch your hands, Carl. We talked about that.”
Looking up at the nurse, Carl gaped back disdainfully. Standing six foot five, the nurse loomed over both men. His breath stank like a cheap baloney sandwich and coffee, but was an imposing sight within a smock too small for his massive frame.
“Don’t worry, chief,” Carl said. “We’re just having a discussion here.”
“Yes, a nice chat,” Allen supportively added.
The nurse eyed both men suspiciously for a moment. Not completely satisfied, he retreated to another area.
Allen shuffled his chair right next to Carl so they could speak privately. He looked over his shoulder, checking that the nurse was occupied, and then dipped his head close.
“I personally have been very affected by William Blake. Do you know...?”
“No, you’re dreaming, for God’s sakes,” Carl objected. “You’re not going make a difference with that ancient stuff!”
Allen looked puzzled. “What do you suggest, then?”
Leaning with his neck severely bent, Carl whispered into Allen’s ear. “Listen, you gotta put down something that’ll knock the crap out of them. Break all the rules. Get off the chessboard and punch a hole so deep in their gut they’ll have no choice but to wake up. Even worse, they need to be angry! Schizo out-of-their-fucking-minds angry!
“Okay,” Allen said, nodding. “I see what you mean. That’ll work.”
“Can you do it?” Carl demanded, and placed his hand firmly on Allen’s shoulder.
The nurse walked up again from behind. “Hands, Carl!”
Carl sneered up at the hulking male nurse. “We’re just talking about poetry.”
“You’re done with poetry for the day, Mr. Solomon,” ordered the nurse. “It’s time for your treatment. Come with me.”
Carl reluctantly stood and followed, keeping a final eye on Allen as he was led out. He smiled again, curling his arm to show defiant strength.
“Death to Moloch!” he shouted.
Allen watched as Carl finally exited through a sliding steel gate. How sad, he thought. But there was nothing he could do. He was powerless to resist physically.
Gone from sight, Allen returned his attention to the window and began thinking over their strange but fascinating conversation. No choice but to wake up? Was everyone dreaming? He would have to create something unusual if he was going to bust down the walls of society
. Something damn good.
The wind had gusted up outside. He now saw a haze settling down over the city. The wind rattled the glass that feebly sealed the old plaster wall. For some time, his attention was riveted by the various sounds made by the gusts of air that waxed and waned from without.
“Something damn good,” he murmured to himself.
Chapter 4—Mysteries
For believe me: the secret for harvesting from existence the greatest fruitfulness and greatest enjoyment is - to live dangerously.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
From a sandy border town near the old Mexican line, Shinzou changed routes and caught an available high-speed rail heading toward the Phoenix Central Hub. The last leg of his trip only took twenty minutes. But as the train slowed down for its arrival, he had an opportunity to survey the city where he and Hugo Kosterlitsky had often met years ago. Those sojourns within Union territory helped Shinzou surmise one thing. That living conditions in Phoenix had for the most part remained the same over the years. In some ways, that was good. But he still would never live there, or in any metropolis for that matter. It was, from his point of view, self imprisonment.
“This is a public safety announcement,” warned an automated conductor. “All passengers must comply with any and all requests by security personnel. Your cooperation is appreciated.”
Miffing under his breath, he wondered if those words had any relevance to the meeting he was about to have with Hugo. The thought was quite absurd, considering Shinzou’s unique interpretation and application of the word “cooperation.” Perhaps it would be some simple data audit. Wouldn’t that be funny? But with good reason, Shinzou suspected much more. They were healthy suspicions. And his first task would be to blend in and understand if his own past efforts were involved. In some respects, it was a dangerous game.
Stepping from the maglev’s airlock onto the Phoenix Transport Hub’s marble floor, Shinzou looked around and breathed in air full of modern day aromas and perfumed nano-chemistry. Yes, sir, nothing had changed. That was certain. And visually? Huge extruded archways adorned unlaminated Byzantine dome ceilings, all joined together in an ornate collage of geometrical space that simulated an artificial sunset of cyan and magenta.
Still, no matter how devoid of natural beauty, the hub lacked scrollers of any kind. Shinzou loved that fact. Appreciation of the hall’s grandeur and retro-futuristic design fell only to those like himself, who preferred raw space, unfettered by the slithering of intrusive images and advertisements.
Something then caught his attention. Sniffing the air, he detected the scent of desert flowers and coffee. No, that had to be fake. Like birds attracted to the false azure sky, shops in the grand hall used designer fragrances to attract customers. But oh, God, did it smell good! How could anyone resist? Despising his own weakness, he bought a cup of something called Scott Laboratories 3267 Organic and sipped it with bemused enjoyment as he made his way downtown toward the governmental zone.
Hugo’s office was on the sixty second floor of the Pan American Union Building at Van Buren and Third. It had been years since their last meeting at that very same location, and Shinzou considered his decision to meet face to face. Maybe Hugo wouldn’t appreciate it. But on second thought, so what? It was too late to turn back, and without further thought he went inside the building to register at the security front desk. Waiting for his scan cycle to complete, he looked on as his drink was placed in an ornate detector and subjected to various tests. They proved that every molecule within the paper cup was, beyond a doubt, just coffee. Upon its return, Shinzou frowned into the cup and was about to move on when he realized a small receptionist crawler was in the way.
“Do you require assistance getting to your final destination?” it asked politely.
“I’ve been here before,” Shinzou said, continuing toward the elevators.
Though unescorted, Shinzou was quite aware that his every step was closely monitored. Understandably, he made a point of bringing very little with him. He certainly didn’t want his own electronics scanned. Still, he was no enemy. In fact, he preferred to consider himself one of the team in some strange way. Other thoughts, he reminded himself, were best stored away while inside Union territory.
Entering the lift, he meandered through several more air locks before gaining final access. He found Hugo sitting quietly behind a secure wall of ceiling-mounted flexi screens. There were stacks of them which obscured his form, but Hugo’s outline gleaned through multi-folded translucent scaffolds.
“Take a seat,” Hugo said, without diverting his concentration.
A bit unfriendly, Hugo was obviously under pressure. Budget problems most likely. But that was the way he liked it, Shinzou reminded himself. Sitting down in the guest web chair, he took a long unsatisfied sip of his coffee and did his best to break the ice.
“Happy holidays,” he said between sips. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Hugo kept typing for a moment and then retracted the screens in unison. Support arms folded like spider arms, raising the monitors up toward the ceiling, and allowing both men to see each other directly.
Without smiling, Hugo drummed his fingers for a few moments, then spoke tersely. “Right. Happy holidays. You didn’t have to come here, you know. We could have just talked virtually.”
Shinzou didn’t reply. Smiling back wryly, he took another sip of his drink and waited. The air hummed with the sound of air-conditioning and microelectronics as a brief silence engulfed them. They weren’t exactly friends, but Shinzou knew it was best to let Hugo go first. Let him think he’s in control. That’s how things worked in the past. Would the future be any different?
Hugo said, “I couldn’t tell where you’ve been these days. I assume you stay in the American Sector most of the time?”
Shinzou nodded politely, aware that Hugo was displeased about his off-the-map way of living.
“I’ve been here and there, but decided to take time off out west toward year’s end. It’s been a while since the last assignment, so.... Well, I thought it would be nice to drop by in person.”
“Interesting,” Hugo said. “Few people care to meet face to face anymore. I suppose you’re getting to be old fashioned.”
“Or just old.”
The mood improved slightly as both laughed, but it quickly subsided, leaving an awkward silence once again. Hugo in his typical fashion wasn’t one for chit chat and waved a pen to indicate that there was something of interest to explain. Swinging around toward the wall he started his briefing.
“A rudimentary target profile has been created for the outage two days ago at the Cactus Quad.”
Hugo then pointed at the wall where various images and maps faded into view, much of it taken on Christmas Eve. A few moments of the chaotic footage splashed within a checkerboard montage of smaller screens. Shinzou looked on with interest and then nodded.
“The central payment consolidator went down during peak hours,” Hugo continued. “That escalated into level seven retail-rage. DPS took care of the rioters, but a hardware failure was discovered and seems to have been the cause.”
With a few keystrokes, schematics of the non-stop board grew over the wall in detail. Shinzou recognized it immediately. Scrolling markup text in various colors outlined components and detailed copious amounts of technical data, all of it pertaining to functional specifications and the identity of outsourced manufacturers for every subcomponent.
Hugo glanced over to see if the data had any impact. “Tests show its biological components were hacked and the status for the incident is now set to first degree LS.”
“I see,” Shinzou said, looking on with interest. Squinting at the data momentarily, he gazed back at Hugo. “Do we have any analysis on the hack? Any signatures or trace methodologies?”
“The Sentients haven’t found any yet,” Hugo said. “But they’re going further into our Union network for assistance. This is one area where you can help fill in our target profile, becau
se they’re having difficulty. It’s going to be a technical effort to figure out how the LSers operate because the central board was designed and manufactured years ago by a broad group outside the Union.”
Shinzou pointed up at the large list of manufacturers. “Yes, and there is no primary. It’s a hodgepodge of companies across—” Shinzou stared again and then approached the wall to see fine details. “India, Cebu, China, Japan, Lagos.... Wow, don’t you just love the global economy?” he said, shaking his head in dismay.
“One important fact,” Hugo added. “Even though the component manufacturers are spread out, seventy-two percent of the design was done in Japan. The Sentients think there’s a high probability our LSers are there, or have some strong relation to them.”
Shinzou was skeptical. “The Japanese? Typically they’re ruled out. Their personality profiles don’t match well.”
“We can’t make assumptions about their location. Maybe this group targets outside their home country. It certainly is safer.”
Shinzou nodded slowly. “But much harder to execute. Okay, well, you never know anything until all the facts are in. Speaking of which, if you want me to help, I need data. When can I look at the design database?”
Hugo twisted uncomfortably in his chair and began to drum his fingers on his desk. “That’s another issue. The firm that operates the system here in Phoenix, Vitalli, is just a sub-contractor. The primary service is out in Bengaluru. Sri-Ooti Dobinski Clearing. You ever heard of them?”
