Twelve
October 19, 2024
Alta Mesa Memorial Park, Palo Alto, California
A light drizzle fell from the sky as Anja and Diego walked across the lawn at Alta Mesa Memorial Park. There was a handful of zero percenters flapping above them, as well as a few of them wandering through the cemetery in the shape of safari animals and assorted fanciful creations. Diego ascertained they were not “real,” as his sensors could detect fellow zero percenters. Anja, however, found herself startled by the sightings until she received his reassurances.
Atop a slight knoll, they came to Chris and Matija’s gravestones. The markers were both modest in size and design, unlike the more elaborate monuments nearby. Chris’s epitaph read, “Loving Father, Husband and Optimist,” while Matija’s said, “Loving Mother, Wife and Dreamer.”
Anja carefully laid a bouquet of wildflowers between the two gravestones. Diego’s concierge and I remained in the distance, standing under a grove of eucalyptus trees.
“Is this ever going to get easier?” she asked Diego.
“I honestly don’t know,” he replied. “My sense is that the gravity of a loss never leaves us, but other experiences come along to soften it over time.” He looked at her wistfully. “That’s a crappy answer, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s a good answer, but somehow I feel even more stuck. I know I’m being irrational.”
“Remember, go easy on yourself.” He gave her a long embrace.
“You’ve turned everything around, Diego. You truly have. It’s unbelievable how in a matter of weeks, carbon dioxide emissions have dropped to almost zero. We’ve stopped polluting virtually altogether. Poverty, illness, war have all been swept away. And people seem genuinely happy in a way I never could have imagined.”
“It is remarkable, isn’t it?”
“So why am I still resistant to the idea of joining the party?”
Diego just shook his head.
“I feel like my time in this limbo state is running out,” she continued. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even have a way to get around anymore.”
“No, no,” said Diego. “I’ve talked to the Council. They’re going to give you an exemption for as long as you need it. You can drive Chris’s car, and they’re even keeping the Bombardier ready for you, in case you want to use it to go back to Boston or wherever.”
“That’s pretty lame, isn’t it? Haven’t all the other planes been recycled?”
“One plane isn’t going to hurt anything. You know that.”
“I’m such a hypocrite,” she persisted. “I can’t understand why anyone would have good thoughts about me.”
“Oh, Anja,” replied Diego. “I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that absolutely everyone on earth is thinking good thoughts about you.”
“What about him?” She pointed to Chris’s gravestone.
“This fellow here? He’s your greatest champion. I wish you could have heard the way he boasted and bragged about you at work. I know you guys argued, but it was only because you loved each other so much. He carried the things you said around like they were gospel, his biggest points of reference. You were his north star, Anja.”
“You’re exaggerating,” she sniffled. “There’s no need to take it that far.”
“I’m not, though. He desperately wanted to please you, to win your support. But you have to understand, he had a lot of other forces to contend with… it wasn’t easy being in his position, accountable to so many people.”
“I know. You’re right. I wish I had seen that better when he was alive. I wish I had let him know how proud I was of him.”
Diego stared off into the distance. “Your situation is not like anybody else’s, and I can see how much you’re struggling. I’ve been trying to think of a way to give you comfort.” He hesitated. “Have you considered asking your concierge for advice? Or I could ask mine? Or both?”
Anja laughed in a tortured way. “Somehow the irony of that seems almost appropriate.”
They walked back to the eucalyptus grove with Diego’s arm around her shoulder. A slight wind began to stir the leaves. Anja was reminded of the Transylvanian landscape, although she couldn’t think of any reason why.
“Vicia, what’s the current count?” she called out to me.
“Are you sure now is a good time for me to access that data?” I replied.
“Yes, now is perfect.”
“The count is two,” I said softly. “At present, there are two humans who are not zero percenters, but it is looking like it will be one very shortly.”
I proceeded to explain to Anja that the other remaining biological human had just been buried under an avalanche in the Portillo backcountry of the Andean Mountains. This particular human was an Olympic gold medalist freestyle skier from Aspen, Colorado, named Gunnar Freesmith. Gunnar had been skiing the “Super C Couloir,” the signature chute of the Portillo Ski Area in Chile. For those willing to climb a harrowing near-vertical face, it afforded a sheer descent of over 5,600 feet.
The Super C was notorious for its avalanche-prone conditions, for which reason it was technically out of bounds. Attempting the run required advance approval from the Portillo Ski Patrol—unless one was a zero percenter. Gunnar had not received clearance because it was far too late in the season to be skied safely by a biological human. The thawing snow of late October dramatically increased the odds of an avalanche.
As far as Gunnar was concerned, however, the Super C presented only a minor challenge, even with wet snow. In recent years, he had pulled off numerous death-defying stunts, skiing the most inaccessible and inhospitable terrain on earth. Stretching the limits of human achievement was his raison d’être. He scorned zero percenters because the whole point of existence, in his view, was to discover what could be accomplished with the body in which one was born. Seeing them tear up the ski runs with their superhuman prowess only increased his desire to show that a mere mortal still could have a significant wow factor.
Gunnar had already skied the Super C eight times that season. On this particular occasion, having watched his entire community of fellow skiers digitize themselves, Gunnar felt even more pressure to justify his decision. Descending the Super C in excess of seventy miles per hour, he couldn’t resist swinging wide of the main gully to express his freedom with a 360 front flip off of a beckoning ledge.
As three witnesses on the slope below testified, he executed the move flawlessly. But what he couldn’t have anticipated was a hidden hollow spot, upon which his landing triggered a vast fracture line, precipitating a vicious release of white powder. The witnesses watched the whole terrifying ordeal unfold. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of tons of snow broke free on top of Gunnar, blasting down the couloir and loosening yet more powder along the way. All told, over ten acres were impacted by the avalanche, creating an enormous debris field with no telling where Gunnar lay.
As I detailed the predicament, Anja didn’t flinch or cry or make any other outward sign of distress. She merely asked if a search and rescue team had been mobilized, to which I replied that it had, but so far they hadn’t located the body. I added that the effort was aggravated by the fact that Gunnar’s transceiver did not appear to be sending a signal and night had already fallen.
Upon hearing this, she requested that we head directly to the Palo Alto airport to board the Bombardier. I raised no objection to her decision. In fact, I thought it was a good one. But Diego seemed a bit less enthusiastic, especially since Anja wanted him to join us on the flight. Diego’s concierge, whose name was Pete, felt even more opposed to the idea.
“It will take over eleven hours by jet to reach the Santiago airport,” voiced Pete. “The journey by car to the Portillo Ski Area requires another two hours, as well as at least ninety minutes of additional hiking to get to the avalanche. Even if we miraculously located this skier right away, there is a statistically insignificant probability that a biological human could survive fourteen point five hours buri
ed under several feet of snow.”
“Your analysis is sound,” said Anja, “but I still think we should go.”
“Our concern would be better served by requesting more search and rescue workers,” he said.
“That’s a good point,” said Diego. “Can you contact the World Council and let them know that I approve of expanding the search effort?”
“Done,” said Pete.
“Thank you,” said Anja. “I’m all for a bigger crew, but I still want to go there. Will you join me or not?”
Thirteen
October 20, 2024
Super C Couloir, Portillo, Chile
Diego, Pete, Anja and I flew through the night on the Bombardier. Anja served as pilot and Diego as copilot, as he too held FAA certification. Pete and I enjoyed the luxuriously appointed passenger lounge.
By the time the first rays of sunlight appeared on the horizon, we were passing over the small coastal town of Puerto Oscuro, Chile. Anja gently guided the jet southeastward.
“The Santiago airport is due south,” said Diego.
“Slight change of plans,” she explained. “Vicia and I will be disembarking midair above Portillo. Then you’ll land at the airport and await further instructions.”
“What?” he exclaimed. “You can’t parachute out of this plane!”
“We won’t be requiring a parachute,” she replied calmly, “but you’ll need to depressurize the cabin before we open the door. Fortunately, both you and Pete shouldn’t have any problem, since you don’t need to breathe.” She flashed him an ironic look.
“And how is it that you expect to survive without a parachute?”
“I’ll be riding on Vicia’s back. She’ll be in a flying mode.”
Diego shook his head. “I truly hope you know what you’re doing. I realize it’s hopeless for me to dissuade you, and my number one goal is for you to feel supported, but please, please, don’t make me regret this.”
“You won’t. I’ll owe you after this. My father will owe you too. I mean that.”
Anja gave him a pat on the shoulder, then she initiated their descent toward Los Libertadores pass, which had once served as the main transport route connecting Chile and Argentina. It was a crystal-clear morning and the snow-covered Andes shimmered in the distance.
“See that lake?” said Anja when the Portillo Ski Area came into view. “It’s called Laguna del Inca. At the southern end is the historic yellow Hotel Portillo.” She got up from her seat and passed control to Diego, then gestured for Pete to enter the cockpit and strap down. “Up ahead is the pass, which is going to be the best place to drop us. Go as slow as you can. Ideally, we’ll want to be at about fifteen thousand feet.”
“I don’t like this,” whimpered Diego.
“Nor I,” said Pete.
“It’ll be fine,” said Anja. “Fear not.”
She donned a jacket, hat, and gloves. I flashed her a nervous look but decided not to ask any questions. Instead, I readied myself to adopt the form of the giant teratorn, Argentavis magnificens, as it was available in my installed apps and it happened to be one of the largest birds ever to exist, with a wingspan of almost twenty feet. A few quick calculations confirmed that I would be able to support Anja’s weight in such a form, at least for a downward glide.
“Is everyone ready?” she asked.
“I suppose,” sighed Diego.
“Yes, I’m ready,” I said.
Anja and I positioned ourselves by the exit door, then she hopped onto my back and clasped her arms tightly around my neck. “Vicia,” she said, “when I tap your shoulder, you’ll need to quickly open the door without any hesitation. It’s going to suck us out violently, so brace yourself as best you can, but don’t fight it. We’re aiming for the tallest jagged peak at the top of Super C.”
“Got it,” I replied.
“Diego,” said Anja, “on the count of three, please depressurize.”
“Awaiting your count,” he replied.
“Ready… one, two, three!”
There was a loud thump as the cabin pressure equilibrated with the outside atmosphere. Anja tapped my shoulder and I proceeded to unlatch the door, giving it a slight push.
Instantly, we were hurled out of the jet into a wild, uncontrolled free fall. I went black for a moment before I managed to switch my form. Then I unfurled my wings and all at once we were gliding through the air above the snow-clad mountains, with Anja clinging to my now much thicker neck.
Fortunately, I had reviewed a geological map of the area, so I was able to spot the major landmarks. Aconcagua, the highest mountain in both the Southern and Western Hemispheres, towered in the distance about twenty miles to the northeast. A few miles to my north lay the three peaks of Los Tres Hermanos, ranging in height from 14,022 to 15,587 feet. To the west was Ojos de Agua, a craggy peak of 13,852 feet that sat above Laguna del Inca and served as my best reference point. From there, I merely needed to guide us about a quarter mile southward down the ridge to find the spire that sat above Super C.
As the reality of our circumstance set in, I began to experiment with flapping my wings and initiating gentle turns. The sensation was one of pure exhilaration. I was in the form of one of the largest flying creatures ever to grace this earth, a bird weighing over 150 pounds that had gone extinct more than six million years ago. I was soaring high above the Andes in the exact same terrain that the giant teratorn had originally explored—and I was doing so with a 108-pound woman clutching my back.
Anja began to whoop and holler, such was the undeniable joy we felt, even in our precarious state. I joined her with some shrill shrieks of my own. Feeling emboldened, I tried flapping a bit harder.
I was relieved when my sensors showed a slight elevation gain from the effort. I had to be careful not to lose too much altitude, as we had disembarked at about fifteen thousand feet and we were aiming to land at about thirteen thousand feet. Argentavis magnificens was predominantly a glider, according to paleobiologists.
Taking the prudent course, I soared directly over Laguna del Inca, then I followed the ridgeline until I located the peak that Anja had requested. I was nervous about landing, as I only had about ten yards of reasonably flat terrain to use as my runway. To my amazement, I pulled it off reasonably well—any giant teratorn would have been proud of me.
“You were fantastic!” said Anja as I tilted my neck to help her down onto the snow-covered ground.
“Thank you, Anja. I must admit, it was quite fun. Shall I stay in this form for now?”
“Yes, I need you to fly to the lodge and fetch me a pair of skis, poles and boots, size seven. I’ll be waiting for you here.”
“What if I can’t make the return ascent as a teratorn?”
“Then pick another form that can. There should be something, right?”
“Yes, I believe so. See you soon.”
I spread my wings and leapt off the peak, gliding down the Super C Couloir. Below me lay the entire Portillo Ski Area. About halfway down the run, I came upon the avalanche debris field, where search and rescue workers were intently probing the snow. It was only 6:10 a.m., but at least fifty individuals were hard at work.
Meanwhile, Anja sat cross-legged at the tip of the spire, enjoying a 360-degree view of the snow-clad Andes. Slowing her breathing, she reminded herself of her experience in the Rodna Mountains. She was not her body. This vessel that sat on the mountainside was not her. She was the one who was aware of her thoughts and emotions; she was the one who was aware of the vessel sitting on the mountaintop.
She turned her attention inward and further slowed her breathing. None of this was real. Not the inner nor the outer. It was all illusory. Only consciousness was real. Where was Gunnar Freesmith? Where was his consciousness? Could she relax her mind enough to sense it, to feel it, to merge with it?
Time slowed and her perceptual apparatus fell dormant. There was no cold, no snow, no wind, no sunlight. Nothing remained but the blissful hum of the earth spinning aroun
d the sun, the moon spinning around the earth, and the stars injecting the universe with light.
“Anja!” I called out to her. “Anja! Are you okay?” I swooped down onto the spire, still in the form of a teratorn, then touched her gently on the shoulder with an outstretched wing.
Anja slowly opened her eyes and looked up at me.
“I brought the gear you requested,” I said, “along with the leader of the search and rescue mission, Mr. Navarro. He’s going to escort us.”
“Cómo estai?” said Scoop Navarro, landing beside me. He was in the form of a small helicopter.
“Hello,” said Anja.
“We’re very grateful for your visit, Ms. Lapin. I can’t tell you what it means to have a chance to meet you.”
“I’m just sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” she replied.
“You saved my wife’s life… she was on life support. You saved my son’s life… he had a soul-crushing factory job. You saved my life… I had bad heart disease.”
“You’re very kind, but I don’t really deserve the credit for all that.”
“No seas tonta!” exclaimed Scoop. “It’s all because of you. And half of my crew have the same stories. More than half!”
“I’m very glad their lives are better now,” said Anja modestly.
Scoop laughed. “Not just better, increíble!”
“Well, shall we?” She looked downward.
“Sí poh, Super C can be pretty tricky. I will give you plenty of space.”
“Okay, sounds good.” Anja put on the ski boots I’d brought her, then clicked into her skis.
“Everything you need is in this pack—transceiver, shovel, probe, airbag, even an avalung,” said Scoop.
“Thank you,” said Anja. She swung the pack onto her back, grabbed her poles, and slid off the ledge into pure powder.
“Hoy!” called out Scoop. “You’re supposed to follow my line!” He flew after her and I followed behind them.
Zero Percenters Page 5