Café de la Changé
In a luxurious hallway, paused before a heavy door, all brass and polish, stood Dr. Anthony. His first meeting with his potential buyer was being held in the Grand Hotel, the Party-owned hotel. The Party made him nervous, but the only way anything like this could be done was through them. He composed himself, patting down the creases in his coat and straightening his shoulders, in the dull gold reflection of the brass-paneled doors. Three quick breaths, one, two, hand on the door, three, and knock. The door opened to a large anti-chamber, a silent man, an aide, took his coat before seeing him through to the reception room. A tall elegant woman stood in the center of the room, next to a breakfast table set for two. Her suit was tailored to her svelte body, emphasizing her long limbs and firm muscle and giving her an air of menace. She had a dark beauty about her, with her desert heritage shining behind a face free of any makeup or fuss.
‘Hello, doctor. Come, sit.’ she gestured to the seat across the table.
It was set before a magnificent bay window, which looked out at the slushy, snow-covered streets and the aggressive lines of the state opera house below. Dirty whites and greys muddled the lines of the buildings as if some cold cancer was consuming the city. Dr. Anthony paused before taking his seat, trying to read the woman’s face; he had to take great care in dealing with her. Cinovnik Hanna was, he knew, a deadly adversary, and as such he doubted that he could trust her to make a fair bargain. As the security chief of the Party, she was completely devoted to the cause, and terrorism was her staple diet.
‘Hello to you, Cinovnik Hanna!’ he said, friendly but reserved. He waited for the nod of acknowledgment as she said. ‘I’ve been told you may have something of interest for me.’
‘As ever Cinovnik, I bring you only the best, and as ever, first!’ Anthony stated rather grandly.
‘Must you talk like a common monger in the street doctor? What shall you offer me next, three for the price of one?’ Almond eyes stared intently from her austere face, while short hard fingernails gouged the heart out of an orange. She showed no hint that she might be joking. Juice dribbled slowly down the side of her hand, unnoticed, as she measured Dr. Anthony across the divide. Dr. Anthony looked up from the orange in her hands, swallowed, and went for the sale.
‘What would you say if I told you I had...a...a...tool, shall we say, which would assist your party in eliminating its border agitators…in a political manner, without a single death!’
‘I would say you are a liar and a fool, doctor!’ Hanna looked at him long and hard, while Anthony tried not to gulp like a landed fish. ‘But I know you are neither of these, tell me how an eminent doctor, such as yourself, could remedy my party’s…squabbles?’ The sunlight, cast blue by the stained glass of the window, beat Dr. Anthony’s face into a lumpy silhouette on the large hand-woven rug. It bulged and stretched grotesquely as he spoke. ‘As you are fully aware, I’m somewhat gainfully employed at Micro-ban and, as you are especially aware, their specialty is microengineering: Nano pumps, valve bores, and the like.’
‘Yes, doctor, but if you could get to the point…your sense of drama is most annoying. Just about every person in this room, including yourself, has some form of micro-engineered system within them. I fail to see how this medical technology could ameliorate our political situation!’
‘Please, Cinovnik, I’m merely laying it out, to put it into perspective. So, we can alter the human body, using microscopic machines created from the patient’s own tissue, yes?’
‘Yes, this is agreed and as I have said, get to the point!’ Hanna retorted hotly.
‘OK, say we take this a step further, from mechanical to electronic bioengineering...’ Hanna shifts forward in her seat, her voice animated beyond the formal for the first time since the beginning of their meeting.
‘That’s impossible! You mean a computer, don’t you?’
‘Oh, it’s all very possible...’ Dr. Anthony replied cheerfully, the Cinovnik’s reaction encouraging him onward. ‘...In fact, it is done, sir; I have installed one already ...’
‘I must see it!’ Hanna insisted, rising from her chair. This was not a request and Dr. Anthony knew it. He had planned for it. He knew Hanna better than she was aware of, in fact, he knew her inside and out.
‘Hanna...’ he began, using his best bedside manner. ‘...I’m afraid that is not possible just yet. We, my assistant and I are still in the data collection stage. I cannot risk any contact with the subject, as you can imagine his mental state is of the utmost importance. He is under constant surveillance and is being monitored by myself and a professional psychologist ...’
‘But you can share your results, can’t you?!’ Hanna interrupted, her eyes blazing as her imagination ran wild with implications she perceived. ’You do have control measures in place, I presume, as I feel this man is probably not a volunteer?′ Her hands tented before her mouth, narrowing her face further. like a hatchet, poised before him.
‘Hanna, Hanna please, I’m as ever careful. The subject will soon be answerable to a remote-control device, which you supplied to me only a short time ago. It will enable me to direct the actions and prompt the thoughts of the subject, via GPS uplink.’
‘Explain to me doctor, just how this will work for us. A computer of this type is financially a benefit, I’ll agree, but this is the MSS. I would like to hear the reasoning behind you approaching me!’
‘Well, Cinovnik you are the only one I deal with in the party ...’ Dr. Anthony grinned broadly.
'Don’t give me that old man. Do you not know I have more information on your movements than you do yourself? I am fully aware of your dealings with the Department of the Interior and Foreign Policy.' Her face tightened in contempt.
'Well then, if that is the case, you will know that you are the only one I have approached with this.' Dr. Anthony replied sharply. Hanna was surprised to hear his retort; it was always good to know where a man’s pride lay. 'Indeed doctor, it is as you say. Please continue.'
Dr. Anthony began to explain the process of implantation, detailing the growth and distribution of control cells, around the body.
'The computer locates weak areas and causes the body’s own cells to rebuild. It manufactures probes that join nerves and senses to the mainframe, located along the spinal cord. Within days the parasite biology accesses the mind, through the subconscious level, and eventually the conscious level, using pre-programmed chemo-electric messages.'
'And where do the materials come from doctor? Surely, the materials needed to build such a computer do not all exist naturally in the human body?' Hanna asked, as ever alert.
'Ah, indeed, Cinovnik, you’ve hit the proverbial nail on the head. As I have said, the machine, at the early stage, influences the host on an unconscious level. Compulsions, we all suffer at one time or another from compulsions. Surely, even you have had a want’ on you for one thing or another. We’ve all heard of pregnant women eating coal and the likes of that. Well, our host will find themselves absentmindedly chewing the end of their pencil or picking their teeth with the tip, in which case, they come into contact with graphite, cellulose, and any number of molecular compounds. It’s easy; they access all sorts of materials in their day-to-day activity. Surfaces Nano-probes transport them internally and then using the bio-systems inherent in the human body, such as the liver or kidneys, and they then distribute them to the required areas of the body. It’s very simple really!'
'And then?' Hanna’s voice, for the first time, betraying a hint of wonder.
'Then, it takes over or rather, I should say, we take over, eh!' He chuckled good-naturedly. A hint of pink swam, for a moment, over Hanna’s honey-brown face. 'Why, this is delicious, I’ll have that old tyrant Burndegard under my thumb in no time!'
'If that is what you wish, my dear.' Dr. Anthony beamed broadly. The beaming quickly turned about on itself as the once smiling eyes narrow before him.
'Hanna, I will take with aplomb, but never “my dear”!'’ The last two words she expelled as an acidic spit. 'How do you propose to get to a figure such as our mighty party leader, doctor, or is this the point where the great plan falls short?' She inquired, with more than a hint of skepticism in her voice.
'Cinovnik, I believe the subject we already have in our control will be able to transfer the parasitic technology, much like a common infection, to a suitable host, who in turn will be able to access our “mighty leader”. It’s a simple process of adjusting the frequencies of the remote-control device for each new host. The more transfers there are, the quicker the parasite gains control. A simple accumulative effect.' During the meeting, Dr. Anthony’s nerves were strung as tight as piano wires, as he tried his best to stay on top of the situation. Dealing with Cinovnik Hanna was always a tense affair, but he knew that to achieve any form of wealth in this country he must deal or be dealt with. Hanna was the strong arm of the law; her law and she was as ambitious as they come. She held the forces on the street and all the informants went through her, and then on to those in high command. Over the last five years, she had clawed, tooth and nail, up through the ranks, plotting and scheming all the way. Dr. Anthony knew that she was the real power in the Party and if he was to survive, never mind become prosperous, he had to be an asset to her future regime.
Hanna rose, and one of the aides helped her on with her elegant retro fur coat as she said...' We, of course, have a deal. We will sort out the details later, with regards to your… fee.'
The pause boded ill to Dr. Anthony’s ears.
At his reluctant nod, she continued...'The men I leave behind here are at your disposal. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the assistance. As for the rest, I expect regular updates on the progress of the host subject and a full report on the technical information pertaining to the abilities you claim this bio-parasite of yours has!' Her ‘men’ were highly skilled men and women, who expanded the role of an aide from simple paperwork to assassinations and international sabotage, among other things.
'A small token of appreciation will be forwarded to you.’ A smile, like a whip, flashed across her face.
‘My man will arrange it.'
Then with a curt bow she and her retinue were breezing out the door of the penthouse towards the gilded doors of the VIP lift. Dr. Anthony couldn’t help thinking, not for the first time, that Cinovnik Hanna had a cold, sharp mind…like an ice pick. He was left standing on the suite’s ornate rug, somewhat bemused by the fact that she had maneuvered him into a position of total subservience.
The aides now standing around him would, undoubtedly, be reporting to her every step of the way. He couldn’t help but smile as he imagined the surprise she would get when she learned of his quantum-entangled data block. His fingers reached for it in his pocket, just to give it a reassuring tap, tap.
Having once again collapsed to the apartment floor, it was apparent that not everything was going quite as it was supposed to within the nano world beneath Peter Elworth’s skin.
MAC ENGINE UP-LINK SYSTEMS BIO-NETWORK. LOCKED.
HOLDING: 3.000
REGENERATION HOLDING AT 75%: 3.700.
20% RECONSTRUCTION EFFICIENCY: 3.701.
SYMBIOTIC CONNECTIONN FAILURE REGISTERED: 3.900.
AUXCILEURY ENGINE ENGAGED: 4.000.
DELT9 AGENT BLOCKER IDENTIFIED: 4.234.
SYMBIOTIC CHEMICAL RE-ROUTE ESTABLISHED: 4.500.
SYSTEM COMPLETE IN MARK 500.
ERROR REGISTERD 4.525, 4.525:
ERROR. ERROR.
MAC ENGINE UP L1NK SYISTEM BIO-ETWORK. LOCKD.
55% RECOSTRUCCION EFLICIENCY ELROR: 5.000.
STYSEM ERR0R. REROUNITG AMINMO AICD RCETPORS. 5.098.
SYSYTEM ERROR ERRROR FEXID. 6.001.
RAITORENEGEN RE-RTOUE HDINLOG 100%. 6.456.
Spittle began to chill within the fibers of the rug; a thread of mucous still stretched between, touching the warm lips above. Eyelashes skittered and twitched, as consciousness drifted slowly back into Peter’s body. With a croaking dry rasp, the implanted Nano-engine kicked in and he began to rise. Legs and arms re-organized and disentangled as he lurched onto unsteady feet, upending the desk in the process. Wobbling among the scattered sheets of paper and table legs, he was assaulted by a blast from his senses, like a brick cracking against the inside of his skull. Bombarded in an instant and instantly changing the great overwhelming force of super-heightened senses disarmed him; the taste of the room, the smell of age and life and death, the feel of sound on his fingertips as, with the help of a chair, he held himself aloft. Each sensation clambered for his full attention, as his mind went into sensory overload. Blinking and swaying, he pulled himself towards the door. Old planed wood vibrated with the echo of the scream, the torture of the saw on fibrous flesh, as it was hewn from life.
Peter howled, trapped for a second, before he pushed on through the mental anguish. The door shattered before him, locks rendered useless in the face of his near senseless force, only for him to face the gauntlet of sensation from the hallway outside and the greater world beyond. Staggering half-blind and mumbling incoherently Peter hit the sharp winter sun-soaked pathways of Jeffers St. Leaf litter tumbled and scraped in the icy breeze, hurried along by the shuffling of his untied shoes. No one looked his way, wrapped up tight in heavy coats and woolen scarves, skillful in their avoidance; staggering vagrants were as common as the doorways they coveted, in this city. Sensitised beyond its ability to process, his mind reeled with the massive influx of information: the air on his skin, pores open, veins pulsing, the crack and thunder of his feet on the path as they weaved their way along. The dirty stained collar rubbed stiffly against his neck, scratching his Adam's apple; he ripped it off and dropped it to the ground with a soft thud. Time no longer existed to him, just the blinding world and the pain searing to a nimbus of fire in his mind. Hours passed as his feet lead him automatically, unknowingly, along the streets of Cloistergrad as the winter-yellow sun faded behind heavy clouds, promising snow. Peter’s tortured mind received the salvation it begged for as he crashed down on a pile of rubbish bins, in an anonymous lane-way, unconscious. Well, not totally unconscious…somewhere, deep in the depths of his mind, a landscape unfurled. A new inner reality, one formed of thought and belief as his true inner self, is led into a world of imaginings.
'...What do they think they’re doing, invoking me like that left, right, and center?' Peter’s inner projection found itself sitting at a bus shelter on a sunny evening somewhere.
A pleasant breeze brushed his cheek as he looked across at his companion, Scorpio, who was staring at him with a belligerent, questioning look on his face.
'They don’t mean you as such, they believe there is another God…and anyway, it’s just a phrase you know, “Oh God I hate my hair” that sort of thing!' Explained Peter with a curt wave of his hand, all his past life forgotten.
Here, in his mindscape, he’d been listening to the wizened old god, Scorpio, complain endlessly about the lack of respect from the youth these days.
'Blasphemy...’ exploded Scorpio. ‘... mind you, I’m not at all surprised, they are after all embodiments of my psyche and as such...' he grinned, '... they’re just there so I can conjure you up to complain about them to!'
Peter regarded Scorpio and rubbed his chin. 'Hmm, you don’t give yourself a whole lot of freedom, as a god…’ He waved his arms about as if grasping for words. ‘...I mean, you do have to go to the clinic every day, and the pharmacy, too. Why not live the high life? Wine, woman, and song…that sort of thing?'
Scorpio squinted from under his multi-colored floppy hat, winked, and said,
'We gods, that is if there were more of me of course, do as we wish and need not explain my selves to mere yous!' He reached into his pocket and slowly produced some lint, his eye fixed steadily on Peter.
'What are you doing?' Peter asked nonplussed.
'Shush, just watch, watch and all will be!' Scorpio deftly flicked the lint into the air. As it dispersed into the breeze it caught the sunlight and twisted into star-shine motes, twinkling like sunny day snow.
Peter’s world began to spin within it; the bus shelter and the street around began folding about themselves, into the light. From within the confusion he could just make out snippets of speech.
Peter’s mind began to tumble with the world around him. '...and master...' and words fall about Peter. They drift in and out, up, around, and about him. They’re all he can see.
'... lies beneath the skin... Black as pitch poison ... To live...the walk the way...' Peter struggled to speak, but the words have him held mute, contained in the vast nothingness. '...your God...in me...whole lives will...the sun...past lives...' Peter drowned in the words...in an agony of intruding thoughts until...just as he felt he could take no more the world changed once again...
'...There is life!'
With a start Peter is jolted nearly out of his chair; he’s now in a café, sitting opposite a man in a coloured cap. 'Are you alright?' the man asked.
'I...I don’t know.' Peter looked about him, at the other customers in the café, eyes jumping quickly from one to the next; families, couples, and singletons engaged in their ordinary lives. How did I get here? this all feels wrong, odd. he thought.
'You were just about to prove the existence of perfection!' the man said, looking quizzically at Peter.
'Sorry, were we talking just now?' Utter confusion washed over him and its tide pulled out.
'You said that, “perfection exists as an attainable goal”, and that you could prove it!' The man yearning.
'I did?' Peter responded, glancing erratically about the café. 'Where am I?'
'Why, the Café de la Changé, of course. Are you quite alright? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!' He leaned in to peer a little closer at Peter.
“Move” something inside Peter cried. 'Excuse me. I’m sorry, I must go, sorry.' Peter grabbed what he could only presume was his coat, from the back of the chair and headed for the door.
'What about true perfection?' The man shouted after him, longing in his voice. 'You have to tell me!' The entire café turned to stare, first at the cap-man, and then at Peter, who was halfway out the door.
'I’m sorry, I can’t remember!' he cried back, as the door shut behind him and he stepped out into a purple sunset.
'I’m glad you didn’t lie to him!' said Scorpio, sitting outside the door of the café, his coloured cap before him on the ground containing only two lonely, well-rubbed coppers.
'What the hell are you doing…begging?' exclaimed Peter, as he absentmindedly patted his pockets in search of sunglasses to protect his eyes from the setting star. Ignoring the question, for fear of stating the obvious, Scorpio continued, '...Because, you know, there is no such thing as true perfection.'
'I’m sure you’re right...' returned Peter, as he placed an unfamiliar pair of sunglasses on his nose. '...So, answer my question, why does a god need to beg?'
'No, no, no Peter, you must think, it’s important, that’s why we were in the café.' Scorpio’s old blotched face reddened with the intensity of emotion. '... just sit here beside me and think about it.' Scorpio nodded, as he guided Peter to sit on the dusty concrete beside him. Peter sat himself down against the café wall, the murmured voices inside faded from his ears as he stared down the street. His mind began to wander as a purple heat-haze mirage caused everything to dance and shimmer like phantoms. A rubber-legged stray chewed fleas in a spectral wave horizon. Perfection all around me, that’s it.
'I’ve got it. I, you, everything about us, are perfectly themselves.' Peter’s gaze locked on the cur as it gnawed itself around in circles, the haze lending it a fluidity of movement absent in life. 'How do I explain this, eh? Yeah, I’m being myself perfectly, even if I am aping you, I’m being myself aping you, perfectly!' Peter beamed a huge smile at Scorpio.
'No, nice try, but you’re just being unique man, everything is unique, perfection is more, therefore unattainable. To have perfection you need comparison, right? You’re unique and if you were copied exactly, history and life to the last detail, like identical, then you would no longer be unique, and the copy would no longer be a copy, it would be you and you would be two and therefore one. For the copy to remain perfect it would have to occupy the same place in time and space, which brings us back to the start again!'
Scorpio nodded his head at the baffled Peter and sparked up a ragged dog-end cigarette butt of dubious origin.
'So, there is no such thing as perfection!?' Peter asked flummoxed.
'Yep, well no, the word exists as an idea that does not exist, if you follow, so long as we are willing to believe that it does exist then it does, even though it doesn’t!' With a sudden gasp Peter flipped spasmodically and writhed on the ground, in seizure. The stray dog yelped in distress and sidled off out of view, down the empty streets with its ragged tail firmly between its legs.
'Whoa, man that can’t be good for yah!' wheezed Scorpio, through a cloud of smoke and yellow-brown teeth.
Now finding himself standing on the edge, on the brink of a supernova, Peter, oblivious to his recent past, turned his head and looked over his shoulder.
'Now this is incredible!'
'It is though, isn’t it...' replied Scorpio, a step behind, as they watched the universe spread out before them. Stars danced in celestial lights, planets whipped past at unimaginable speeds, solar winds rushed through their hair, causing little motes of fire to dance in coronas about their heads; cosmic dust dancers and meteor crystals, lattice prisms. '...Close your eyes!'
Scorpio’s chocolate-smooth voice once again flowed through Peter’s mind.
'Why?' Peter asked.
'Close your eyes and relax, look down into yourself.' Scorpio continued.
Peter does as instructed. Slowly, he begins to drift deeper and deeper into himself. Outside the shell, Scorpio chants a mantra, 'voor ute dat late mode lay sanfi.' Whisper dream on my molten soul. Then with the mantra pushed. Peter, in his mind’s eye, stood before a blazing pillar of white light, the nimbus of his essence, his spirit. Scorpio’s chant looped and twisted, accelerating Peter through the white light and deep into his spirit. His projected self sheared away in the exchange, reeling in spectral agony, and then, Peter found himself standing on the edge of the brink of a supernova. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder.
'Scorpio?' Nothing. 'Scorpio, where have you gone?' The place in which he stood moments before was deserted, but everything else was the same.
'Open your eyes!' The voice echoed, vibrating throughout the universe before him. Astral winds rushed and bellowed with the sound. As it reverberated it blasted Peter out of his trance.
‘What the hell was that?’ exclaimed Peter, as he finally opened his eyes. Exhausted he slumped down onto the rocky outcrop, head in his hands on the edge of the universe.
'Peter, the universe is inside you as well as around you. We are as much the universe as are ten billion stars!' Scorpio sat down next to Peter, an arm over shoulder to steady him; ancient gesture. And then he told him the way it is. 'In the beginning, before time and space, there was the Supermass, dense and pulling deeper into itself until it had the surface area of, well, say a large fist. Supermass was alive, body and mind, and the cry of our spirit was its cry. “I want so much more life!” ' At a level of existence before time and space, this cry issued from the mind of Supermass. The decision was made, it made the act of choice and the universe was born. Thy will be done.’ As the story unfolded, Peter dreamt the dream of his cells, the dream of the universe, the dream of life.
'As the force of will ripped the Supermass apart, body and mind split into energy and substance. Some bodies becoming inert and some infused with energy and some energy burst free, alone. Time began and eventually over the
millennia creatures developed. The nature of their biology converted trapped energy into thought, a little bit of mind. Deep in space, alone for millennia, lay the Deepmind, the unattached, original mind energy, in fear of the dark...of the body trap. Deepmind, soul sucker, absorbing the information that had been refined in the biology of the animals. The more advanced the biology the more information was refined from the mass, the original body. Without substance, Deepmind cannot draw the energy from the little rocks of planets where life is allowed to grow to consciousness. It wants to wring consciousness from the elements, to feed the ever-expanding Deepmind. There is no good and evil....no choice here on the farm, we’re an image of the universe in miniature. Human nature, universal nature, all the nature of life!′ Scorpio told the dreamer under his arm, as space wound out beneath his feet. 'The concept of good and evil was invented by Deep-mind, to prevent us from seeing the truth, one god, pah, not like this. We, the universe, are speeding towards a great conjoining, a return to balance, to some new form of Supermass. Don’t you feel it, Peter, there are quantum-entangled ion receptors in your mind, each part reading the other’s code of quantum particles, codes written in streams of neutrinos, blipping like binary, pouring like a constant river of zeros and ones, quantum messages spelled out in their being and lack!'
His voice flowed around Peter, weaving with the dream of life.
'Deepmind has been out in the cold so long it has become afraid of the body, resisting the conjoining. Deepmind is trying to split body from mind completely. Just imagine, imagine dead space. Peter, you are the catalyst, the catalyst biological, you alone can fight it. There are billions of people, minds, but it conspires against us, and so we fight, and starve, and die and it grows. If it succeeds the body, rock will fall forever through empty space, vast and lifeless!'
Scorpio explained how human greed and hate were manipulated and influenced by Deepmind, to retard conscious development...human development, to stop the extension and expansion of the Supermass plan, the great conjoining of a conscious universe; a vast singularity.
'Peter yours is the choice, you are the body and mind. Not only an image of the universe but an expression of the Supermass and the singularity, the balance of cosmic body and mind, you are the germ of change!'
As the dream unfurled in his mind Peter’s body lay inert among the refuse bags, cooling in the sharp night air. The moon alone watched as his form slowly changed, wriggling in a stop-motion dance to the passing of the night. Biots, programmed for change, eddied in the cold winter air, seeking out their master controller, a computer that could only be found in Peter’s dreamer’s brain. A lone, dirty old tomcat passed the alleyway where he lay, but it feared to enter; wrongness permeated the air, scratching at the very lining of his nose. The mottled, calico cat stood bewitched, transfixed, at the end of the laneway, ragged ears cocked just so to the side, motionless, staring at the transformation playing out before him. All the while breathing in airborne Biots which emanated from Peter’s prone body.
Within hours, the now infected tomcat also began to change, as the Biots gathered in his hippocampus and began to access the codes of his thoughts, to see the plan for change, their instruction manual. At dawn, the mesmerised tomcat flicked his tail with an annoyed swish and lifted off into stroll. His mind buzzing with a hive of voices, feelings, and images, annoying him. Wanting from him an emotion, a feeling, an expression of self awareness. The whole time the scruffy cat’s brain folded and twisted inside his skullcap. The miao’s and meep’s of his mother tongue forming syntax and words in his growing mind. All the while Biots were replicating and building the structures they needed to construct a self-awareness; to ask the question, the question soon to be posed to hundreds of others throughout the city.
′What will we make of you?′
And times passed.