Repetition

by Alan Gallauresi

  This was in August of 2066, a year which when divided by 6 results in a remainder of 2. Every year since 1979 -- the year the name rotations were standardized -- when that year divided by 6 results in a remainder of 2, Joyce had had a chance to be big. She had sputtered out in tropical depressions before; missed the list entirely in thankfully quiet years; lasted just one day as tropical storm in 2018; hit the limelight in 2000 as a honest hurricane before dissipating without any deaths or serious damage. This time, she was churning up to a Category 4, and her name was about to be retired.

  The City of New Atlantis, situated mere leagues from her center, endured Joyce's effects for a brutal 59 hours as the storm stalled short of the Florida coast. Instead of breaking her fury on the bulwark of land, Joyce lashed the floating island with fierce, torrential downpours. High above the seas, the city was blissfully spared the devastation of the surge that brings the brunt of death and destruction from hurricanes, yet the floods came anyway as sheets of freshwater poured through the streets into overflows at the city's rim. An apocryphal moment in time could hold an image of God's personal fountain: New Atlantis, her central pump leading up from the water like a stem, welling over in cascades from her lip as the eye left her momentarily serene.

  In truth, New Atlantis was never graced with such a calm moment, as the punishing winds near the center of the storm whipped her non-stop over two and a half days. Joyce finally left for good, sputtering out as her track led west and hitting landfall in Texas as nothing more than a prolonged thunderstorm. In her wake, she left New Atlantis battered, suffering billions in wind and water damage. After the costly clean-up, the city turned its eye to prevention, and the architect of it was William Barnes, thermodynamics engineer, owner of Barnes Distribution and son of a proud tradition.

  Barnes Chemical Distribution began in the 1930s as a smalltime supplier of niacin, a compound which the founder, Frank Barnes, Sr., created in bulk by soaking harvested corn in alkaline lime. When the U.S. government mandated the inclusion of niacin in bread in 1938, Barnes saw a lucrative market to tap; not simply in selling niacin by hitching his company to the distribution vectors of necessity. Less than a decade before, Morton's had added the biologically necessary element iodine to their salt; everyone needs salt, and that way they got their iodine too, and both Morton's and the iodine suppliers got rich. Frank Barnes, Sr., aimed to be very rich, and passed down that biological wont as well as the wisdom of market diversification to his descendants.

  Everyone needs water. In the late 1950's, as a result of U.S. public health policy, Barnes Chemical Distribution, under the auspices of Frank Barnes, Jr., was awarded several contracts for fluoridation of municipal water supplies in Central Ohio. Owning several mines rich in fluorapatite, Barnes was able to provide the necessary fluoride cheaply; they expanded across several midwest states rapidly. Eventually, a glut of artificial fluoride and increased anti-fluoridation political action made the line unprofitable.

  Everyone needs air. In the 1980s and 90s, gambling casinos began experimenting with introducing concentrated levels of oxygen into their air conditioning systems in order to keep people gambling -- or so the public believed. It never happened: increasing oxygen levels constituted an illegal fire danger, and once the myth, begun by an irresponsible party, became prevalent in gambling culture, the Nevada Gaming Commission periodically tested the oxygen levels at all casinos. It was, however, legal to inject scents into the casino air supply, an effective and low-cost method which was demonstrated to keep gamblers at the table longer. Barnes Distribution (the "Chemical" moniker had been dropped some years back), now a HVAC outfit headed by one of the senior Barnes' grandsons, ran the industrialized lungs of several of these monstrosities. Barnes provided an array of scents to cover up the decaying odor of beer and nicotine that had soaked into the bones of the casinos: fresh scents derived from perfumes such as sandalwood and lavender; clean scents with citric overtones; unusual scents such as lovage and capers. Coincidentally, the latter materials contained large amounts of quercetin, a compound that acts as antihistamine when aerosolized, reducing inflammation and increasing oxygen intake in the lungs.

  William Barnes took the reins of the company from his uncle in 2031, six generations down the line from its founder. The business was now responsible for the infrastructure of some of the largest buildings in the world, from stadiums to megascrapers. Six scant years after assuming the leadership of the company, William was chosen to personally oversee the life support system of the Silver Age by Anders himself. The partnership continued through the construction of New Atlantis, with Barnes Distribution designing and implementing the city-wide water system. Now, Barnes was the natural choice to design the air-shield that would protect the city from danger.

  Fourteen months after Joyce left for good, the citizens of New Atlantis looked up at the sky and noticed nothing at all that had changed, except the way the shield would sometimes shimmer into existence in high winds, or as skydust fell at night. And the way when they breathed deeply that the air was subtly scented, sometimes of cherries, now of almonds and spice, as atomized cinnamaldehyde drifted invisibly past.

  ###

  They were treading a path of dust red set in concrete. Parallel paths intersected them every few feet, describing a giant grid on an open expanse. Chandrasekhar kept his head down and his face shield up; the pressure in his eyeballs was rising and the approaching sun blinded him when he tried to meet the horizon head on. His head snapped on suddenly hearing Siri's voice.

  Are we getting close now, Chandrasekhar? She was almost dragging him along. Twelve years since the Star City left the Earth, but that wasn't my moment. My moment was a hospital bed next to a frightened girl dying from a tumor in her brain. It’s what kept me from this place. Twelve years since I died and was born again, every moment drowning in pain. But you know what that's like.

  He did. After the reconstruction, he had been scared to be alive, frightened of the pain. The prop had dulled it some, until he had forced himself to kick the drug entirely. Dulled the nerves, said the doctors, but Chandrasekhar had taken it to remember the feeling of being free, and he had weaned himself off it when it had become a burden instead.

  Twelve years, and the people are gone. I should have been here. This was my dream, not theirs. This isn't paradise, it's a box.

  His gauntlet glowed and spit out a sequence of numbers. This was communication from the Boots computer. How was it sending again? The numbers were a meaningless jumble. Chandrasekhar was struggling to move forward now. He leaned heavily on Siri and whispered, Why me?

  Because we're alike. Reconstructed, reworked. She looked at him, reading his expression. I didn't know it until I saw you at the museum and thought: Oh, it's you? The man from the dream, beneath the spire. We aren't the only ones like us... it could have been any number of men, but only you came.

  Chandraskehar thought of those half-finished diagrams, the note that had made sense only to him. How many people had received those? And the money. Sums only the government or the impossibly affluent dealt in.

  They were nearing the spire. The star floated free of the dark spire's vertical horizon. Chandrasekhar stole a direct glance at the sun: a burning cube, radiance shining from its faces of transparent aluminum. Light winked out in patches as faces turned dark and bright again in imitation of the passage of flickering clouds.

  We're close now. What will you do then?

  He coughed and fell to his knees. Siri let him fall, walking forward. The hyperoxia was affecting his vision; the star blazed, overexposing the entire scene. He spat out the word: repper.

  She spoke without emotion. Get the replicator? Return it to humanity... Because it's helped humanity so much until now? Because humanity has been so grateful for it? There is something else out here, Chandrasekhar, something worth finding. Maybe the people here found it. Maybe the beings that built that ship found it.

  His body, his mind: both were past exhaustion. He didn't want to c
hase any more. He wanted to go home, rejoin humanity. Good enough, he choked. He bent forward, his arms supporting his aching torso, and looked up.

  The lines in the ground tangled together, waving and shimmering. It was now. She was taking her helm off, grasping something inside as she let it fall to the ground. The white suit clung to her like an angel, the artificial sun blooming behind her hair. She was the culmination of beauty, the end of a dream. She was speaking, talking into her hand, smiling at him.

  A great shadow blanketed him as he passed out.

  Chapter 16

  Life is What Happens | Seed | A Free Idea

  Wald’s mother had told him: Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. She was an adage librarian and she spoke them over and over, like mantras.

  Outside the window, the ground is changing scale, the parallax expanding imperceptibly as the jet streaks closer. Vast tracts pass by at incredible speed. This time tomorrow, where will we be? Said the poet.

  Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. John Lennon didn’t write that, he repeated it – a saying originated in print by the cartoonist who drew the matronly Mary Worth. Wald’s mother was probably quoting Lennon anyway. Imagine -- all the people, she would say. That had never resonated with Stephen. He thinks of an Italian subs and pasta shop located on his way home from work. Its owners had pasted up a sign with a globe of cheese and pepperoni and the words: IMAGINE – A FREE PIZZA. It was a ludicrous suggestion, encouraging you to use all your powers of concentration to divine the possible paths of human complexity and settling on getting A FREE PIZZA. And yet, that possibility, unlike world peace, was close at hand: tangible, edible. A FREE PIZZA, HELL YES.

  Wald had had a lot planned in his life. Through the pulsing discomfort in his contorted body, he recalls the expectations of his youth: a beautiful wife -- sexy like 16-D, intelligent like 17-C -- not a real woman, just excellent characteristics; multiple kids -- so they would always have playmates; a large home; a sports car. The best possible outcomes in a child's game; the polar opposite of driving home an ugly wife to your shack in a Yugo.

  Wald had always expected to get to that point, the point where you win the game of life. It had never happened. I don't know how to do that, he thinks. In the past he had successes, something to build upon, but he could never reach those goals. As soon as you feel comfortable, as soon as things are on track, they get interrupted. He had wanted to save up his will, hoard his attention, but there was only so long he could concentrate. He had meant to improve -- his body, his career, his love-life -- but frittered it away. No pain, no gain. Blessed are the hungry for they are sticking to their diets. One day at a time.. but then there's another day, and another. Life was too cut up; too impractical for a life-time of solid ideas executed through persistence and dedication.

  He runs his foot against his carry-on, across the pocket where the heavy-stock paper is, feeling the resistance of its edges through the sole of his shoe. He feels a surge of energy flush through him and has to remind himself that it isn't time to go yet, like the people who will pop up from their seats when the plane arrives at the gate, then flop down when they remember how long they will have to wait to exit.

  He can't help being excited, sometimes overwhelmed by his unrealistic expectations. Negative thoughts surround him, especially the worry of succeeding without things actually improving. I don't have any better ideas.

  The plane rocks and tilts as the pilot turns an arc for their distant approach. Subconsciously, the people around him start to fade: the baby; the father; the beautiful girl. Twenty minutes from now, they will have gone from his memory completely. They won't have existed at all. He allows himself to think about the future outside of this plane, visualizing each step in his plan. Good enough, he guesses.

  ###

  When patients arrived for the first time -- by referral only -- at the Glasser Clinic in Santa Cruz, they were greeted in the front lobby by one of several attractive female assistants, dressed in white silk uniforms and clearly still working through the front-end of their third decade. This was part of the holistic treatment. When pretty people smile and make eye contact with you, the brain releases oxytocin disulfide, encouraging feelings of comfort and trust in strangers, an important factor in doctor-patient relationships.

  After the patients were seated in comfortable purple velvet club chairs placed in a symmetrical arc around the oval-shaped service counter -- the mission style lobby was appointed with great care to suggest a limited, personal level of service -- they made their way through a maze of electronic forms, indicating professional thoroughness and creating a paper shield against potential suitors. The insurance paperwork was streamlined for these Class B facilities comprising a number of complementary therapies. Patients typically paid 50% out of pocket for the services which were billed at a set rate, a rate negotiated in the 40s when HMOs realized that alternative (complementary) medicine regimes provided greater patient satisfaction for less money compared to the traditional establishment. Whether the patients were actually healthier was a more diluted calculation.

  Paperwork completed, the patients were ushered into a inviting office to meet each of the doctors in succession. Doctor Ellen Glasser did not believe in making patients wait; she would poke in her freckled Midwestern face a moment after the patient had sat down on a sand-colored nubuck couch, greeting them with a practiced beam. She took time to explain the process in detail, differentiating it from other types of therapies that had a less respectable connotation: hypnosis, subliminal recordings, etc, etc -- those techniques may or may not have scientific validity, but they were not practiced at the Glasser Clinic. The technique of neural plasticity, or the creation of new pathways through new experience, was widely accepted, and the Glasser Technique was just the next step in its evolution.

  At this point, she would step out to collect her husband, introducing him as such to the patient, before leaving him to continue the session. Doctor Ted Glasser -- handsome, perhaps a bit harried looking -- would then remove his dun corduroy jacket, hanging it on a coat rack in the patient's peripheral vision, then reclining slightly in an office chair. This signaled that the next hour was going to be a relaxed experience, as Doctor Glasser alternated between instructing the patient and describing the scientific background of the process.

  The patient was first told to frame the behavior they wished to encourage in their mind by imagining the positive consequences of the behavior. What would your life be like if you were able to induce that behavior on a consistent basis? Explore the details of that event: where are you? What are your surroundings like?

  At this point, the patient was instructed to codify the behavior by speaking it aloud. This is like planting the seed of the idea; the neural pathways in your brain regulate around the thought, tracing over a route until it becomes familiar and comfortable to the mind. People desire the expected, and this trains your brain to derive satisfaction from behavior you are imprinting on it. The more accustomed you are to the idea, the more likely you are to successfully emulate it. The technique responds best to short phrases, spoken in rhythm over and over like mantras or the lyrics to a song.

  Now -- scientifically speaking, the brain produces dopamine in response to expectation of events. Dopamine is the conduit of desire, and when the anticipation of that desire is met, high levels of dopamine flood the nucleus accumbens, resulting in a feeling more akin to focus than pleasure. The expectation could be nearly anything, insignificant or grand: sex on the first date; sugary pastries at 11:15 am snack time; flirting with an attractive co-worker; having a child; winning the game in your adult kickball league; drinking after the game in your adult kickball league; acquiring material possessions aka shopping; sex on the second date, then; solving an algebra word problem; succeeding at gambling; getting a good seat on an airplane; success at work and at home; sex on the third date, surely.

  The neurons that determine whether the event has occu
rred or not are complex mechanisms that place special emphasis on environmental details to resolve the issue: color; texture; spatial positioning. When the reward that a dopamine neuron has been conditioned to expect is not satisfied, the neuron fails to fire and dopamine levels plummet, causing a sensation similar to pain. Dopamine is both the carrot and the stick that leads our lazy, chemical-brine computers along, manipulating our desires to produce action. The brain doesn't care that it hasn't received the pleasure of the reward; it cares that we are terrible predictors even after millions of years of evolution, that we can't accomplish the things we so desperately want. Therefore, it is important to ensure that the mind can focus on the tasks that accomplish the desire.

  When the patient was fully prepared, they were taken to the medipod room. Medipods were not in wide use at the time, being a relatively expensive medical novelty. The patient was instructed to undress and lie down in the pod while continuing to chant their phrases. This was the nerve-wracking part for some: the pod closed fully around the patient, an experience that verged on the claustrophobic. Any anxious feelings were countered by the sedative quality of the medipod's fluid bath, and soon patients found themselves relaxed and comfortably warm.