by Edge O. Erin
Making his way into the darkest corner of a dimly lit bar that he otherwise would not frequent, he waited for the server. A foul-looking and even more foul-smelling unit barked a, “What have ya?”
His reply of “A cold beer” was greeted with a snort. Several minutes later, a warm beer banged down on the table.
“Eight or what have ya?”
He ignored the “What have ya,” downed the warm beer, and swiped thirty credits.
“Eight’s for the first beer and twenty is to bring me a cold one, and then kindly leave me be for fifteen minutes.”
Tips were rare, and the man’s eyes brightened, which only made him look greasier.
With an icy cold beer on the table, he pressed his thumb onto the Wristpad screen, keyed in an alphanumeric code, and viewed the file.
Chapter Four
From the beginning, she knew. It was written all over his face, described by his body movements and reported by his scent. As his time around her increased, Security First-Class Jop Baturu-Heim became more brazen. He brushed his hand along and across sensitive areas when he positioned the restraints, and if others weren’t there, he openly groped and grunted. Unchecked, his behaviour advanced to its logical conclusion, and now the sexual abuse was routine.
She retreated to the sanctuary of her thoughts as he closed the cell door behind him in the interrogation wing of Bang Block.
Morality is often ulterior to an event, and by inference, it is mutable, stubborn, yet mutable. But what came first, the code or the action? Neither, for it was an observation of actions and their results that distinguished ‘right’ from ‘wrong’, for the observer must see that which facilitates equilibrium or promotes growth as logically preferable to discord and disorder. The microbots were innocent and dispassionate entities, yet thorough observers.
***
Yes, she left the Ghan Garden Estate, and yes, that had created a stir, but her talents were still required and because she enjoyed her work she stayed on. Even after being demoted from Chairwoman of the Red Articles to Special Assistant to the Acting Director of the Red Articles, she stayed on.
Being treated so unjustly wounded her gravely, and though the wound continued to fester, she was a ‘team player’ and continued.
But this day, by the Goddess, this day…
“Striking out a section of the Red Articles without proper consultation or consensus, let alone unanimity contravenes provision IV-a.”
The board members, who had allowed her replacement, Annee-Ghan-Soft — in her capacity as Acting Director to make edits without consulting her — just stared at her blankly.
The Acting Director, who hadn’t reached her fortieth year yet, finally spoke.
“You were absent, and since you are just Special Assistant, your presence was not required for us to have a reasonable debate and reach a consensus.”
She wanted to bat the impudent, smarmy whelp, but that would be in contravention of the Red Articles, and general etiquette. But oh, how she wished to smack her just the same!
She settled for what should be a beat-down in a battle of wits.
“Regrettably, I must inform, as detailed in the Red Articles itself, that you are unfortunately and categorically in error.”
She removed some papers from her briefcase and calmly handed them out to each lady, including the youngster.
“For the purpose of convenience and clarity, and as stated in Appendix 21-b: ‘Any former Director — regardless of present title or station — while still involved in the production, edit or review of the Red Articles, must be consulted when any change is being proposed or considered to any statute or section that was under the rubric of the relevant former Director.’”
She could see that Ghan-Soft was puzzled and annoyed, and she resisted the desire to say, “Shall I repeat it more slowly for you?”
Board Member Vina Ghan-Swan, who was chairing the meeting, came to the Acting Director’s rescue:
“Dear Lady, I must apologise for what appears to be a communications oversight. Perhaps the fact that you no longer live on the estate meant you could not receive the classified communique. The Grace, Abigailius-Ghan-Swan, signed off on the removal of the section under the ‘Imminent Threat’ clause. It reads, ‘Providing a meeting of responsible overseers agrees that the act does not invalidate or imperil other rules, literature or laws, it is permissible to make the desired change.’
“I will ensure a copy of the message is forwarded to you.”
It smelled like a seat-warmer’s ‘seat-warmer’, but she could not draw into question the integrity of the Chair, let alone the Grace.
All that she had at her disposal was a delay tactic.
“As it is now 5.55 p.m. and with the speakers even now heralding the ascent of the auspicious Blood Moon, there lacks time to incorporate the Imminent Threat clause into the appeal documentation. Certainly, we all want to honour our Goddess-Ghan procedures to the best of our abilities and demonstrate to the incoming director how we respect tradition even under trying circumstances. Concerning best practices, we are fastidious. I move we reconvene in the morning and expeditiously put this issue to rest.”
They could hardly argue the point, though how they rocked back in their chairs with their eyebrows raised showed they wished to avoid it like a white shirt should a bowl of Bolognese.
She could’ve gone home, but instead, she stayed at the estate in one of the rooms set aside for visiting dignitaries and pored over the Red Articles and various associated legalities.
She tried to find another angle, but alas, there was nothing to bolster her case. And not surprisingly, her Wristpad never pinged with the purported message — original or otherwise — outlining the Imminent Threat. Clearly, it was a whitewash. And no one came to visit her.
To strike a provision in this manner was patently wrong and that she had championed it made it personal. That it involved the clones pointed to a cover-up or a sanctioning of actions that could range from despicable to sinister. Unsurprisingly, this provision was not in the Red Articles’ public version, so the only scrutiny would be from those who enacted and administered enforcement.
“Solitary confinement without the benefit of a trial, torture when not related to preventing acts of terrorism, forced labour beyond ten hours a day, exploitation for sex or pornography and being used as a test subject for drug trials;” all these fell under ‘Inhumane and Heinous Acts’. The distinction the Ghans were unofficially — yet clearly — making, was that clones were more like science projects or lab rats than human beings.
Minutes before the morning meeting, several messages arrived. One, the note about the ‘Imminent Threat’ was a pure concoction, but she had to swallow it for it bore the royal seal. The others rankled:
A scheduled meeting to ensure an entrenched clause could not be overturned without a super-majority had been put off to a later and undetermined date. Further, they rejected her petition to ban in-vitro fertilisation of a clone. It stood to ‘reason’ that if the Ghans didn’t want to safeguard a clone from toil, testing, torture, and sex slavery, they wouldn’t protect her ovaries or birth right.
She walked into the meeting and signed the official paperwork that was waiting for her. She passed the resignation letter she had penned the night before to Vina Ghan-Swan, bowed to the photo on the wall of Abigailius Ghan, and without a backwards look, walked out.
Unless ordered by the Grace, or pulled in by the hair, never again would she darken the Ghan Estate door.
From the recesses of the same estate, a dream was taking place:
It started with an outstretched hand and one word, ‘Claire’.
There was darkness perforated by intense light and a deep sadness penetrated by love.
There were screams and screeches, wailing sirens and wailing voices, and pain, so much pain, too much pain.
There were doctors that cared for them and doctors that cared less.
There were a funeral and a resurrection, but no sa
viour, no grace, no light.
Witches and demons hovered, while angel wings were torn away.
There were dreams inside of dreams inside overarching dreams that were, in fact, nightmares.
For every wall surmounted, door opened, window smashed, river swam, and cliff climbed, she was captured and returned to her cell inside a cell in an array of cells.
How could she ever escape?
It ended with an outstretched hand and one word, ‘Mariot’.
***
Meditation was at once a journey, state, and destination, and occupying that mind-space provided an opportunity to learn and heal. But her inner sanctum was being invaded and denying that possibility. What was the source of this persistent and unsanctioned connection?
Not since her PIP was active had she experienced a ‘thought invasion’, and even then, she had been the ultimate arbiter as to what was allowed. This was… different, for it wasn’t self-generated; the voice was coming from another place or being. Previously, she had dismissed the interloper as a manifestation of stress or a mistake in her meditative technique, but clearly, that was not the case. The enquiry pierced deep, so she finally acquiesced by asking, “Who are you?”
“Sister” was the reply. Sister! The voice matched her own, which made the answer that much more disturbing. “Sister?”
“Sister.”
No, it couldn’t be. The confusion bordering on bewilderment almost tore her from her meditative state, but curiosity and empathy, yes, empathy, kept her connected to the entity.
“What do you want?”
“Sister,” was again the response, but this time it was said with a sense of urgency and desperation. It didn’t compute. Compute, how was it that word supplanted ‘thinking’ in her mind? She was not a machine! She was not Cheriot!
Swept from deep relaxation, she flitted between half-sleep and wakefulness until five a.m. Tired of tossing and turning, she wrenched herself from bed to take a cold shower.
She considered postponing her breakfast engagement but doing so would draw suspicion. Opening her wardrobe, she grabbed one of her least provocative outfits and changed. She wasn’t in the mood; they would have to endure less-than-magnificence for a change. Semi-composed, she adjusted herself in the mirror, measured yet nonplussed. It was time to go; Mariot Grey-Ghan was rarely late for an appointment, but less often was she early.
Chapter Five
A one-of-a-kind ancient book in pristine condition, despite many hundreds of years of immersion in a saltwater environment, was extraordinary, even magical. That it delineated the history of the fabled Water Kings was priceless. That the same book detailed the damning story of how a family of royal stewards — some of which were children of incestuous relationships — killed the King of Tentacles — the last of his line — could bestow riches and immense power to the owner; providing that individual wasn’t a Ghan.
In this case, the finder was a fledgling underwater explorer, pirate, and antiquities trader named Emaris Yugon. Emaris was barely twenty when his team of divers — aided by a local boy that boasted descent from the Water Kings — — found an underwater crypt that contained, among other items, beautiful sculptures, amphora, crystals, unique gemstones and a simple, yet elegant chest. All were raised and positioned on the deck. The local boy protested that some of the artefacts should remain in the crypt “lest the Water Gods take vengeance” on them all. Emaris and his cohort would not listen to such fantasy, and the finds were spread out in the dining room of the ship.
Mouths were agape at the treasure, and all wondered at the contents of the greyish-green chest. There was the outline of a lid, but the seams were so tight that nothing would force it open. Where a lock would generally be, there was only a recessed image of an octopus. They debated smashing it with a hammer, but the boy raised such a fuss that Emaris implored them all to be patient and find a way in. As the men argued and debated what to do, the boy eyed the incised octopus with its tentacles stretched out like searching fingers. Almost whimsically, he pressed his hand into the impression. There was a slight sound, and four three-inch-long stone cylinders slid out from the corners of the chest.
Innocent joy — infused with a dash of ambition — filled his face as he stood on one end of the 3’, x 3’ x 2’ chest. Emaris was the first to notice, for he had stepped back from the quarrelsome lot and was stroking peach-fuzz whiskers that were threatening to become a faint beard. Emaris walked through the debaters to the opposite side of the chest. They lifted on “three”, and the lid slid partway off. It was cumbersome, and a couple of others lent their hands to get it to the floor. They all stood back and looked. It was unimpressive. It appeared the chest was full of some sort of sparkling pumice-like stone that sloshed inside the water-filled chest when Emaris moved his knife through it.
“If all that is in there is pumice, I will be fucked, and astonished!” Emaris had said. As they stood dumbfounded as to why a chest would be full of floating rocks, there began a reaction of sorts.
The rocks began to sparkle as if the pores in them were full of diamonds!
The onlookers were gaping and gasping as wisps of smoke arose. One man started to cough, and then another. Emaris was quick to grab a couple of face masks from the wall, one of which he tossed to the boy. One man managed to crawl his way out the doorway while others choked, coughed, and contorted on the floor, blood coming out of their orifices. The reaction slowed, then stopped, and the sparkles faded from the rocks. The men on the floor were all dead. Emaris opened a porthole and raised his hand towards the boy as a sign to wait. They waited. After a few minutes, Emaris took off his mask, so the boy did too.
The man who had made it to the hallway returned, coughing a little, but alive.
Having been asked what to do with their dead comrades, Emaris told him to bag them up to be dumped when they were well out to sea. The man knew well enough not to question Emaris or his affection for others, even though the ‘others’ on missions such as this were frequently strangers and mercenaries. There were now only four men left on board: the coughing man — Jalis — a mechanical engineer, Emaris, and the boy.
Donning gloves, Emaris had plunged his hands into the chest of strange stones, and after moving his fingers around the edges of a rectangular ‘something’ raised, with significant effort mind you, a 2’ by 2’ by 1’ book.
The boy gasped, “It’s true; there is a Water Book!”
“It certainly feels waterlogged,” Emaris replied as he grunted it onto the table, which groaned under its weight.
He opened the book, and the pages — a mix of strange words and colours and majestic illustrations — were as clean, bright, supple, and dry as any volume taken from a library. The boy pressed hard against him and the table, eyes wide with wonder, eyes that seemed even larger than they already were, which were more prominent than Emaris’, to begin with. If anyone else, Emaris would’ve sent him reeling, but he liked the boy, liked him enough not to kill him, which he occasionally did to contractors before coming to port.
In time, domain experts that included historians, anthropologists, and palaeographers translated the book. Setting aside the ancient, wondrous, magical, passionate, and ultimately sad story of the Water Kings and their floating megalithic archipelagoan world, the critical element for Emaris was that the Ghan bloodline was stained with treachery and was a fraud. It was magnificent, and he used it to blackmail the Ghans and secure an eminence outside of government, nation, and law.
Decades later, the Yugons had become the murmur behind the roar and the whiff of smoke in advance of the flame. Their reach and influence spanned bounds and borders. Emaris Yugon could’ve been an emperor, a president, even the president, but the man disliked limelight and notoriety. Immense wealth and incredible power, without having to answer to anyone… to be above the law in almost any jurisdiction, now that was freedom. That he was complicit in the Ghans perpetuating their power and building their myth mattered little. That he was instrumental in fi
nding and dispersing treasure and antiquities to the world’s museums was his way of ‘giving back’. That his son Pinto, who was now leading expeditions and immersed in the family business, would someday assume the mantle of leadership was logical, and it pleased him.
That his eldest child, Yazmin, was spoiled, wilful, and coveted power over family did bother him. That she had elected to marry a Ghan without his consent made him angry. That she might be working against his interests in a furtive effort to usurp Pinto made his blood boil, and when that occurred, bad things happened.
***
The mandate ‘To know and monitor more’ provided substantial intellectual and computational freedom, and he exercised said freedom well beyond what the powers-that-be would’ve expected or permitted. Yes, he knew Mary was having some issues, but that came from unsanctioned pathways and avenues, and consequently, he hoped that if the anomaly were detected, it would be assessed as benign.
He saw Systems and Data Analyst Lester Mistre stroll by his office door, and then hesitatingly pass by again minutes later. He knew Lester was obsessed with Mary.
Finally, Lester worked up the courage to knock on his door. He motioned him in.
“How may I help you, Mr Mistre?” He had to be aloof and direct with Lester as he liked him more than the others and couldn’t let it show.
Lester wobbled, and as his head seemed slightly too large for his body, it made for a strange and somewhat amusing effect. The man watched Lester’s hands tense and delicate fingers twiddle as his large eyes moved about, grasping for the correct approach in conveying his thoughts.