The subway train shot beneath the city like a shiny, elongated bullet, rubbing and vibrating against the thin metal rails. It sped, twisting and turning throughout New York’s underbelly, the old decaying tunnels beneath the flourishing capital of the world.
Markus Salinger often wondered about the subway system. New York City seemed to be advancing at such a swift rate that everything was always newer and shinier every day, yet the subway tunnels looked as if they were about to crumble down around him. Why didn’t they get an upgrade? With the sudden and unexpected popularity of monorails, why do subways even still exist? Maybe some old ideas simply refused to die.
The text of a science book, Angels and Atoms, filled a small computer screen, which extended from the arm of Markus’ wheelchair. With his head tilted down toward the words, Markus read, trying to avoid any eye contact from other riders. However, a voice sung out from above, making him peek.
“Evol…”
The word Evol, in light blue, flowed through the flat television mounted above the nearby exit. The word also filled the other screens throughout the subway car.
As the word faded, a woman with dark brown hair, curls falling to her shoulders, appeared on the screen wearing an all blue jumpsuit. Her frame was petite and her buttermilk colored skin was flawless, as if fake. She spoke, “The next step in humanity has arrived. Immortality is no longer myth or legend, but as real as your own mind.” Suddenly, the jumpsuit faded and the woman was left naked. Her skin reminded Markus of smooth rubber. “On July 4th, join us here at Evol and let us take that next step together.” Slowly her skin faded, leaving a metallic android. “And skin will no longer hold us in. And death will no longer hold sway. It is time to shed our dying and live forever.” The woman disappeared, leaving only the word Evol, and then that was also gone.
Markus lowered his eyes again, but listened to the murmurs among some of the other passengers. He heard someone snicker and curse. He heard someone begin to pray to their God. Both of which was growing abundant these days. Then Markus heard something that he had not experienced much of these days. Two seats down from Markus’ personal chair an elderly gentleman turned to his companion and whispered, “God bless them.”
“Amen,” the lady replied.
“I only wish that all of this had come sooner,” the man said. “I would be first in line, be damned. Would not that be nice, dear? Living together forever?” She simply nodded. “Today could be the day, you know. I hope so. Our time is almost up.”
Markus’ identification badge felt heavy in his shirt pocket. He would hurry, he thought to himself. Markus would hurry as if the lord himself had kicked him in the ass. He would succeed too, not only for himself, but also for good people like the old gentleman and his lady.
The old man reminded Markus of someone. His own grandfather.
The birds leapt and pecked at the falling breadcrumbs, and George Salinger giggled at the flapping feathers. “Aren’t they beautiful, Markus?” George turned to his grandson and handed him a full piece of bread. “Break it up nice and small so that one bird won’t hog the whole thing.”
“Okay,” Markus answered, fidgeting because the park bench was uncomfortable against his spine. With his little fingers, Markus began to break up the dry, stale piece of bread. “Okay,” he repeated, wanting nothing but to impress his grandfather with his bread-breaking skills.
“All of the lord’s special animals were given wings,” George said. “You hearing me, Markus? Wings. That is how I know that humans are not God’s chosen, because we were never given wings. Birds. Insects. Angels. Not man. Nope.”
Markus continued to squirm as the ache rolled up and down the center of his back. Ignoring the pain, he threw out the crumbs as far as he could and watched as the white birds attacked.
“Birds. Insects. Angels.”
“Not man,” Markus added, his prepubescent voice cracking.
“What’s wrong?” George noticed that Markus was swaying against the park bench.
“My back hurts,” Markus replied.
“Again? You’ve been sitting her too long, is why,” George told him. “Go play with the other children, over by the fountain. I can watch you from here. You do not need to keep an old man company. Go. Run. Be active.”
Markus decided to notice the other kids, three of them, running and playing around the giant tree made of white rocks. Dusk was near and the low sunlight reflected across the water, which fell throughout the creases of the massive trunk, giving it the illusion of liquid fire.
Markus sluggishly agreed to join the other kids, but when he jumped from the bench his feet did not feel the ground. His entire body toppled. Markus cried out. He immediately reached for his legs, but without sensations, Markus could not at once find them.
Pushing a button, Markus scrolled to the next page in Angels and Atoms, and came across a sentence that stood out among the other thousands of word combinations in the text. He finished reading it, went back, and then reread the sentence a second time. It was ironic that he would read this passage on this day.
The sentence read: If science and faith refuse to find a common ground and work together, humankind will never progress any further.
As Markus thought about what he had just read, the train’s air brakes hissed, bringing the machine to a stop. Fresh passengers entered and tired commuters exited. Without completely raising his eyes, Markus watched a woman and her young son come aboard and sit directly across from Markus’ wheelchair slot. He thought about nodding or smiling to them but didn’t.
Distant background noise suddenly became clear to Markus as CNN returned from a commercial break. The voice of a female broadcaster caught his attention, “Evol.” Susannah Prepon paused to shuffle her note cards. “The self proclaimed ‘maker of miracles’ hope to accomplish their grandest miracle to date. A miracle worthy of the almighty himself. One that they simply call Angel.
“They will do this today. July 4th. A day known in history as the celebration of independence and freedom. Is there symbolism in using this day? One can only speculate.”
Another train stop came and went, doors opened and closed, but Markus kept his attention on the television.
“The mystery of the human brain has been solved, or so Evol claims,” the woman continued. “And according to Evol, this long awaited triumph comes with an endless array of possibilities. An end to disease. An end to hunger. Maybe even an end to death. But how?
“And what exactly is Angel? Apparently, according to an Evol spokesperson, the human mind works like an advanced computer, only specific to each every person. But a computer nonetheless. Like the data on your computer, everything in it that makes it unique can be transferred to another system. And this idea is the foundation for Angel.
“The Evol spokesperson refused to give any more details. But through commercials, that have been running for several weeks, the idea is pretty obvious. Humans could become robots.
“One man refuses to stand by and let this happen.”
A picture of Senator Long appeared in the corner, his dark eyes sitting behind thick-rimmed glasses.
“Senator Arthur Long,” the woman continued, “is angry. ‘They are going to take away our flesh and replace it with metal. They want us all to be robots,’ Long has been quoted as saying.
“Senator Long is an active leader of a growing movement known as Skin Against Metal, or S.A.M, who are, at the moment, continuing their stern protests outside of Evol Headquarters in New York. Senator Long, a war veteran, has adamantly spoke out against Evol, and the use of cybernetics.
“Senator Long promises that the protest will remain peaceful, but some worry that the growing tension and the growing number of members, which have rapidly increased over a short span of time, will erupt, very soon.
“Could the members of S.A.M. and the supporters of Evol ever
find common ground or will this turn in to a bitter battle for years to come? We will have to wait and see.” With these final words, a male newscaster entered the screen, and began to report on the peace treaty between China and North Korea, which did not interest Markus.
Wait and see. There was much to wait for and to see today, Markus was thinking, when suddenly he recognized the young man sitting across from him. Markus knew the face. But why? When the young man returned Markus’ creepy stare, it came back to Markus. The young man’s right eye was a portion of a second slower than the other, and Markus knew it to be robotic. His real eye had been torn out by a Doberman.
Evol. That was where Markus recognized the boy. But did the boy recognize Markus? Probably not. Markus had handled the case from a distance, never meeting the young man face to face.
Why did the boy continue to stare then, even after Markus had stopped? Markus already had the answer. The young man, like many others, was staring at the cripple, a broken man in a world where nothing seemed to remain broken for too long. If a young man was made whole after an angry dog had taken his right eye, why couldn’t Markus be made whole too?
“What about robotics?” George Salinger tried to keep his voice stern as he asked Dr. Peterson the question. “I hear there are lots of improvements in the field. Reconstruction. Rebuilding. Cybernetics. Replacing bones and even organs.”
Dr. Peterson replied, “True, cybernetics is rapidly growing, but I do not believe that that would be able to help your grandson, Mr. Salinger.”
“Can’t they rebuild or replace whatever is faulty? If they can build an entire working arm for that Marine over in the desert, can‘t they rebuild or fix whatever is faulty?”
Markus sat next to his grandfather, taking in the conversation and the questions with only half attention. It was difficult for him to focus when he was so dreadfully uncomfortable. He tried to adjust his spine by fidgeting, but the warm pain remained.
“His brain is faulty, Mr. Salinger,” the doctor answered. “That is the major problem, here. The brain is having problems sending and receiving signals with the body. And the brain will eventually lose signal completely with certain parts of the body, like the legs, for example. There is just no way for us to build or engineer parts of the brain. It is too complex for any kind of machinery to replicate. It can’t be done right now, if it will ever be possible.”
George Salinger looked defeated. “Is there anything that we can do for him?”
“The signals have begun to slowly deteriorate,” Dr. Peterson said. “But it will take time for them to completely shut down. The lack of sensation and movement ability that Markus is experiencing right now is temporary but will eventually become permanent.”
“Okay.”
Dr. Peterson continued. “I know of a medication that might work at slowing down the deterioration. That would be our best option, right now. His body and his brain are having problems with their communication, Mr. Salinger, and this med will work as an intermediary, like a marriage counselor, or a preacher talking to God for his congregation.”
“What about the pain?”
“Markus seems to be feeling mild discomfort right now,” Dr. Peterson began, “but the pain will slowly intensify over the years. The medication will not help with that pain. We should start Markus on a pain management regiment as soon as possible. We don’t want to rely completely on drugs. We are going to use other forms of pain management, as well.”
“Thank you, Dr. Peterson.”
“Don’t give up hope,” Dr. Peterson said. “Evol is still considered to be a young pup and we are still growing, and miracles happen here everyday.”
The lobby of Evol Headquarters was nearly empty, with only one female receptionist and two guards watching the several glass front doors. Though empty, the main lobby was far from quiet. The doors were not soundproof and the roar of the outside protestors traveled easily through the wide-open room; Markus felt the vibrations as he steered his chair in to the elevator.
Markus knew that the rest of the building would be nearly as empty. Any employees not assigned to Angel were told to remain home. The possibility of an aggravated outburst by the protests made it necessary that only the bare essential staff were here, and most were waiting for Markus on the 39th floor.
Markus had come in to the building by way of the subway elevator, positioned on the side, away from the view of the protestors. He had to use it because the front doors were to remain locked. The subway entrance was rarely used, and Markus was not entirely sure why it even existed. It required an I.D. card swipe, retina scan, and voice recognition to activate. With all the precautions, Markus could not help but to feel a sense of impending doom, and it made him a little nervous.
With the tiny joystick on the armrest, Markus turned his chair 180 degrees to face the elevator’s panel. “Doors close,” he muttered, and once they had slid shut he reached in to the shirt’s front pocket for his I.D. card. Suddenly his left arm began to tremble uncontrollably. His spine and left forearm filled with liquid fire. A harsh breath escaped him, while the pain continued to flow and burn him on the inside.
The tremble in his arm became a familiar convulsion. Using his right arm, Markus clutched the other and forced it on to the armrest. Quickly yet carefully, he managed to lock two straps across his left arm, keeping it secure.
Markus had taken his meds already. It was too soon to take them again. Opening a compartment in the top of the right armrest, Markus plucked out a vial tipped with a needle. Looking at his still shaking arm, Markus knew that he would never hit a vein. Taking several seconds to consider the options, the overwhelming pain made the choice for him. Swiftly, he stabbed the needle in to the side of his neck and injected. The drug was cold as it spread out, and doused the fire in seconds.
However, the shaking continued.
Swiping the I.D. card, mumbling, “38th floor,” Markus got the elevator to move and he began to ascend the tower.
As Markus rolled from the elevator in to his lab, he noticed there were two groups of people waiting for him, the executive suits and the lab assistants, even merging them together would only make a small bundle. Millions of lives might rest upon this test, Markus knew, but only a handful of people would actually see the test done. He wondered if this was how it felt the day that they tested the first atomic bomb, quiet suits and assistants waiting around the mind-in-charge.
“Big day, Markus,” CEO Stockholm said, his hair and his suit black.
Markus ignored the words as he glided past the tie wearing men and woman. He headed directly toward the row of windows behind his desk. Through the tall windows, Markus looked out across a sea of people that hated him and hated what he was trying to, and he could not help but to hate them back.
The crowd had to be reaching close to a thousand or so. They did not block the streets, but instead filled Fruition Garden, a strip of land across from Evol Headquarters. Evol had bought the plot and tore down the abandoned hospital that sat upon it. Over several months, Evol covered the seemingly useless piece of dirt with soil and flowers and trees and sculptures of animals and people. At the center of this beautiful garden was a giant marble fountain in the shape of the Tree of Life, streams of water flowing out from within the bark. Markus loved to sit and stare at the garden. He was reminded of childhood times with his grandfather. Now the garden may be forever tainted.
Along the far side were the city police officers, standing in a bent line at the edge of the crowd. They were dressed in full riot gear. A precaution, Markus assumed. But their presence at Kent State University might have started as a simple precaution as well.
Markus glared at the massive crowd. He was looking for a podium or a stage, any place from which Senator Long might speak. Senator Long would speak. Markus knew that.
Giving up the search, Markus reached with his
steady arm and slid the window open. A roar flooded in to the once sound proofed room. “I want to hear them,” Markus stated. “I want to hear them all.”
Markus once again wheeled past the suits, this time going to a large computer terminal. His assistants remained motionless, simply watching. Everything was already prepared, awaiting Markus to finish. They were merely present in case something went wrong.
“Your arm, Mr. Salinger,” assistant Ross pointed out.
Markus shook his head.
Touching the computer screen with his steady finger, Markus activated it. He muttered, “Open Markus Salinger Mental Scan.” A virtual file appeared and then opened, spilling out images. At the top left corner was Markus, his full body profile slowly spinning. Next to his profile was a digital brain, spotted by blues and reds. Across the bottom, waves flowed from left to right. All of this was Markus, not the skin but the presence. Every neuron and cell and connection and misfire that was Markus Salinger had been mapped, scanned, and downloaded in to this computer, faulty wiring not included.
Before Markus could continue, a voice boomed from outside. “They want us to shed our skin,” Senator Long began. “They want us to give up the very gift that God has given us. Our flesh. They say that they can make us live a longer time, possibly forever, no more sickness or need of murder. No more souls? They say that we are nothing but firing neurons. Are our souls nothing but neurons? No. Our souls are more. Our souls are our one true link to God above. And they are treating it as just another computer glitch, which can be reformatted. Who do they think they are? Are they God?”
“No,” a thousand mouths replied.
“Activate Angle One Program,” Markus shouted.
“Soldier refuses cybernetic legs,” a voice said from the television, causing Markus to halt his pen tip and look up from his desk. As usual, CNN was on the television, mainly for background noise. Markus knew the voice to be Alan Cummings. “Colonel Arthur Long, a soldier with United States Army, and his unit was ambushed by a group of hostiles during a daily patrol yesterday. After nearly an hour of exchanging bullets, Colonel Long managed to fix a broken radio and call for reinforcements. But while reinforcements were in route, an explosion hit Colonel Long, damaging both of his legs, to the point that they had to be taken.
“Being a decorated soldier wounded in the line of duty, the government was willing to pay the bill on a pair of cybernetic limbs for the Colonel. The legs would work and feel like his own legs, along with the sensation of touch and pain. But Colonel Long turned the offer down.”
Markus’ hand tensed and his grip tightened around the blue pen.
“When asked why, Colonel Long had this to say…”
Colonel Long appeared before a camera, “It is God’s will that I lost my legs. I don’t feel that is my right to try to replace them with metal ones, even if that means that I have to spend the rest of my life in a chair. That is God’s will.”
God’s will? Markus grew angry. He looked around his tiny office, remembering why he was here at Evol and all that he wished to accomplish. The hard work. Two college degrees. The debt. Who does this man think he is? How could any man turn down the chance to walk, the chance to run along side everyone else? Markus pointlessly hurled the pen at the television screen and watched it harmlessly bounce off.
Markus returned to consciousness and was immediately confused. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He was lying on something hard, possibly metal, and it was giving him sensations in his spine, but for the first time in many years it wasn’t discomfort. It wasn’t pain. It was some other kind of sensation. He couldn’t place the feeling. It was different.
Another set of sensations called for Markus’ attention, not because they were different, but because they should not exist at all. He could feel his legs, both of them.
Opening his eyes, Markus was bombarded by light, which was overwhelming for a second, but quickly focused. Rising to sit, Markus turned to let his feet touch the floor. The floor held a chill, the most wonderful chill that he had ever felt.
Markus was in his own lab, he knew that much. At once Markus saw himself, still in the wheelchair, and starring back. There were others in the room as well, also staring. For a moment, he was startled, but then he realized what must have been taking place.
Markus was now Angel.
Angel saw that he was naked except for a pair of loose white briefs. He admired himself. He was perfect. Every inch of his new skin was flawless. This was him now, he knew. And he loved the idea.
The roar continued to pulse throughout the room, and Angel, after removing a view wires that were stuck to his shaved skull, went to the open window to peer down upon them. He ignored the CEO, who tried to speak to him. Angel was only interested in the protestors. He could see them clearly, every head, every hair, each and every smirk, as if they were inches away.
Angel could also hear them individually, instead of in an overwhelming bundle. He could especially hear Senator Long, who continued to preach. Angel isolated the voice. He might be able to follow it.
Without warning, Angel leapt from the window. He allowed the Earth to pull him, but only briefly. The fall was incredible. Angel felt the rushing air brush every inch of his skin. Pleasure signals sped throughout his body. But the exhilaration of the plunge was short lived. Angel’s wings opened. He felt the feathers grab the air.
The sky was a clear blue. A nice day for a flight.
Following the voice of Senator Long, Angel flew toward a short podium sitting beside the marble fountain. Angle could clearly see Long, in his permanent sitting position, gripping the microphone as if he was speaking to the entire world. In some way, he was.
One by one people in the crowd began to notice Angel. Their alerted heads rose in massive wave.
“They have done it!” Senator Long screamed in to the microphone. “They have dethroned God! They have damned us all!”
Swiftly the crowd imploded. The police had no choice but to respond. Angel was stunned at how immediately the violence came. Why couldn’t they understand? Didn’t they see the perfection?
Something went wrong. Both of his legs began to twitch and then shake, before going completely numb. “No,” Angel grunted. His brain had been scanned, but the underlying problem, the one that Markus had been convinced had been left behind with the flesh, still existed. It had been more deeply rooted than Markus had realized.
Angel cursed and damned his creator.
His right wing went limp, sending him spiraling toward the crowd. He fought, left wing flapping crazily, but he landed nonetheless.
The crowd of suits turned to Markus to shake their heads. They had watched the rise and the fall from their tower.
“Angle One…failure,” Markus told the computer. The screen was already filling with data thrown back to them from the fallen Angel. What had been the mistake? Markus would know soon, and soon he could fix it to move on to Angel Two. It took God six steps to make the world; maybe it would only take Markus two steps to change it.
A Devil in the Midst (A Collection of Stories) Page 2
