by Thomas Zman
* * *
After breakfast – which was thoroughly enjoyed by everyone, yes-even grandpa had a taste – I actually felt so inclined as to visit myself in the mirror and give my beard a trim. It had been a while since I paid any attention to my appearance. So, with a good electric trimmer, I shorted and shaped my whiskers, then furthered the grooming to include my thick, unruly hair, which I combed out, swept back, and plastered down with appropriate amounts of gel. When I had finished my look -- which had become intensely modernistic -- I was back in my room to freshen up that resume I had long since neglected. It had been quite a while since I attempted my foray into the job market -- having decided early on, upon graduation of college, that developing my own Apps would be my ticket to fame. (I already sat upon a small fortune) I now decided that I would seek that position my dad had mentioned to me – repeatedly, for I now realized that my creativity needed to be shelved, cast askance, and my time be better used towards the service of The Intellect.
I accessed the old resume’ from within my computer’s files and had set about updating it, when my screen blazed over with a summons from said Intellect. After having changed into more suitable attire -- which mysteriously appeared in my closet -- I found myself minutes later, subterranean; though this time I was guided to a lower level where I sat in a conference room with three other people. Veetra headed up the meeting.
“The supply-runs will be suspended in the near future,” she was explaining. “A new Rendezvous sight will be sought in this quadrant, seeing as our previous site has been compromised.” Veetra shot a glance across the table at me. Then complimented my new look. I apologized, explaining my immaturity as I had to my grandfather. “Point taken,” she said, and then continued her dissertation. “We feel there need only be three more deliveries over the next several weeks and then our assistance will no longer be required by the Neuphobian cities. It will then be time we focus all our efforts on the Collective. Most all of our technological terra-formations have been satisfied and the recent inroads we have made into Veetum, compliments of James – she looked over again at me -- will wrap up our development of the Transmogrificator, completing the Demolecularizing Cubicles’ up-links directly to that of The Collective.”
How was this possible? I thought. I was just sitting down to e-mail my resume to that very same company. Now it appears the Intellect has me already working there – no doubt in some position of importance. This time/paradox had surely begun to influence my life on the surface.
* * * *
I quickly found myself seated at another conference table, this one in Kourou, on the east coast of French Guiana. Surrounding me were eight business professionals, their attention focused on my every word -- my teeth gleaming. The presentation that left my lips was not that of my own but one, which had been mysteriously conjured, and making every bit of business sense. Questions from the surrounding support team I did parry, with the utmost professionalism; documents presented me, scanned scrupulously by my personal secretary, and signed off upon with my apparently most consequential of signatures . . .
It was a blur of activity, surreal to say the least, as I then boarded a flight to . . . then roved Veetum’s immense headquarters with seemingly effortless abandon: Up and down rows of cubicles, in and out of offices, and meeting upon meeting in stately board rooms. I was a shell, a mere vessel, and control of my actions on this mission of influence directed by some unknown entity . . .
I found myself at airports, in town cars, and videoconferences, tirelessly, for what must have been days at a time. From Singapore to Silicon Valley, the products I was fast-tracking were all cutting edge technological infrastructure components, which seamlessly melded together the world of bioengineering and aerospace advancement. Veetum was the global juggernaut of high-tech logistics and all the world’s components were funneled through this single company. By doing such the Intellect was able to secure anything, anywhere, at anytime.
I had just returned from a field Inspection in the jungles of the Yucatan, where I was introduced to a vast complex that spanned thousands of acres, thinned off from the verdant wilds of that region. It was home to The Collective. It was totally secluded and accessible only by air. One could call it a sanctuary, for it encompassed amenities found in any of the world’s grandest five-star destinations. Sprawling, expansive, palatial luxury in every sense of the word, but its accommodations were merely a showcase with a temporary purpose.
* * * * *
“How are things going at the office?” asked mom as I entered through the front door, late one evening. She and Evvie had just put Grandpa to bed, and now she was relaxing, about to fix herself a drink from the mini bar.
“It’s very busy. We have new accounts coming in every day and I -- I mean my staff, is setting up meetings and new distribution lines on a continuous basis. Exhaustive work, but very fulfilling.”
“I knew you had it in you, dear.” She poured herself vodka with a sprig of lemon. “You’re making us all so proud of you. All it took was just a little nudge, and now look where you are. In what seems to be such a short period of time, too.” Her mind wandered. “Why it’s been what, two years maybe?”
My heart dropped. Though I didn’t want Mother to notice. How could that be? I was just at an Intellect meeting not a week, two weeks ago, made a few trips, meetings . . . Impossible! I thought it through . . . recounting the series of events . . .
“Is everything alright, dear,” Mother, wrangled my thinking.
“Yes, just a little matter from the office . . . “I accepted her comment with humility.
“Hey, James,” my sister had just walked in from the kitchen.
“How was Dubai? Oh wait, that was last week. Where did you say you were going?” She had changed some since I last remembered her: now dressed in sweats, her appearance unkempt. “Too bad you missed dad’s party – “Angie’s tone edged with sarcasm. “But you know . . . business, I guess.”
Mom gave Angela the look, then sipped her drink.
Angela humbled. “Say James, I was just wondering if there were any positions over at Veetum? You know, Grammin was downsizing and I got pinched last week. I’m keeping my resume’ fresh, though.”
My sister asking me for work? I kept my demeanor, reaching to pour myself glass of wine. “I know the perfect spot for you.”
We continued the conversation between us. Mom worried if I’d been eating enough; said that I had lost weight. You know how moms are. I had to be careful on the tone of our conversing’s. I didn’t want to appear too out of touch with the way things may have been developing around here over the past couple of years.
Once I had drawn things to a close, I made my way upstairs. Upon reaching the top of the stairs I noted that the bedroom across from mine was once again occupied by my sister; strewn about with shopping bags, clothes, and multiple pairs of shoes. At the same instant, I realized the door to my parent’s room was opened.
“James?” my dad called out to me from down the way, so I proceeded further along the finely trimmed hall of intricate moldings, posh wallpaper, and the old gild-framed family portrait; hanging there illuminated beneath a dim lamplight. I often wondered why that portrait wasn’t hung above the fireplace mantel.
“James,” my dad greeted me with a near chuckle in his voice. “Please come in, have yourself a seat.” He was lounging in a plush high-backed chair, tucked away in the corner of his stately room. I sat on the edge of their bed. He had been engrossed in his reading; yet now looked upon me with sanguine eyes. “James,” he said again, his tone heralding the fondness of a proud father. “Your time is passing faster than you can account for,” he stated. I then realized he’d retired, and I had replaced him in the field. “That’s an odd feeling, I know.” He put down his reader and folded his hands, almost prayer–like. “James, I never felt the need to explain things to you, that you’d come to learn on your own how The Intellect worked, and the importance of what your grandfather and I do, and
did -- and the sacrifice that my grandfather had made.
“Veetra tells me you’re quite an asset. How did she phrase it? Called you: ‘The Pinnacle of Efficiency’, I believe are her words.” He smiled broadly and I could see then that he had aged some, his hair silvery, though his eyes still sharp. “You no doubt have been at coordination meetings with NASA, ESA, and the Pentagon. Correct?”
I nodded in agreement.
“Must say I miss those . . . those surreptitious days.” My dad mused a moment, his gaze passing over me, looking beyond. “How those ‘spokespeople’ would spin the truth on matters: The loudest, most logical political voices would always prevail -- no matter what conspiracy theorists manage to uncover. Accountants, comptrollers, keeping the real numbers from the public eye were nothing less than amazing! Though we almost got pinched back in ‘01– horrific consequences. God, how I fought against that.” My dad’s face fell solemn as he reflected upon that Evil Time. “Though, with an unlimited budget, and everyone along the supply line getting their piece of the action, things remain in check – as they have been for years. Billions of dollars in sovereign dark funding projects and inflows from the Mega Wealthy all pool together nicely, wouldn’t you say?”
I agreed. My father was ever so instrumental in coordinating many global projects; my friend, Brax having told me on more than one occasion how my father had been instrumental in the SETI program. Not that humanity really needed to Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence (seeing as we were already working along of side it) but that the entire program was actually a cover for Techno-Forming our planet so that The Intellect could enhance contact with them (the aliens) in the beyond. I had yet to meet any of them, however. I believe I skewed any chance thereof way back when I espied their loading a saucer.
“Nice to see my boys chatting,” mom commented as she brought in a small tray of tea and fixings for my dad, setting it down on the table beside his chair. “Your dad and I miss having you around, James. Couldn’t you do more work from home? I think it’d be rather nice having everyone under the same roof. You know, Grandpa especially misses you.”
“I’ll try my best, mom.” I fell into agreement, thinking of the next several days’ schedule. Tell you what, tomorrow we’ll all go to Church, then a brunch over at Anthony’s.”
“That sounds marvelous,” mom brightened. “I’ll let Evvie know. We’ll surprise grandpa with that in the morning. He’ll be so happy.”
Chapter Seven
Church on Sunday
It was no easy task moving Grandpa and his wheelchair around in public, but Evvie and my mother had championed that long ago. The Mass was beautiful, inspiring, and handicap accessible. Evvie was especially pleased, spirited, she being a devout Catholic and all that. Grandpa was like a celebrity at church, “Nice to see you all. It’s great to be out,” were his standard greetings -- chatting it up with everyone who came by. The town marveled at his still being with us at his advanced age and condition (I often wondered if they mistook him for someone else)
Anthony’s was additionally accommodating, where again our family was highlighted by Grandpas’ presence, and myself even, now that I had taken on a role of importance (so everyone thought) as questions and congratulations were directed at me from both the staff and local patrons who knew of my family -- via my mother, the social buzz of the community.
We were seated in the ‘private room’, though there were only the six of us, and treated to a ‘brunch extraordinaire’. Evvie and my sister fussed about grandpa, attentively allowing him to taste various foods and drink, and he complimented upon each and every one of them. Between that, and the fact that grandpa was temporarily freed from the confines of the house, it was obvious that the Beloved Patriarch or our family was indeed having a wonderful time -- as were we all, too.
Half way through our meal my phone buzzed an important tone, the hierarchy of each ‘contact’ having a separate tone, and I was surprised that it was Grandpa, who just happened to be sitting right beside me. I did not let on to the family that it was he; but simply by the urgent text across the screen I was alerted to a situation that The Intellect had just informed him of -- it requiring my immediate attention. Quickly I excused myself with kisses all around – especially to Evvie, who appeared somewhat enamored of me lately – ‘black carded’ the meal, then proceeded to an awaiting car outside, which promptly took me back home – to The Portal.
I went down the stairs, as I had now for what must have been hundreds of times already, yet this time, when I reached the bottom I turned to look back at my house, and the old porch rail still a tingle with electricity. I stepped out to the side, wanting to go along the back of the house to round the corner, but an energy held me from doing such; it was like pressing up against some clear elastic wall, stretching but not letting me through. I abandoned this effort and headed towards the complex, and it’s now all too familiar hi-tech electronics and futuristic people.
As I studied them, I realized that I too was appearing to mirror their style: their apparel quite similar to the finely tailored suits, near silver in color, that I now wore; my hair swept, fashionately angular – even some grays mixing in. I was handed a tablet and my fingers began dancing across its surface, confirming purchase orders, and configuring logistics. My assistant, Braxton, updated me as to world events (about the aliens especially, for I had a deep interest in such) as I stood just inside the portal, at a newly added virtual-graphic conferencing station; its magical field deploying true to life holograms of my counterparts from around the globe. The meeting was just underway . . .
“. . . and NASA have completed,” the Director of the European Space Administration was speaking through a translator. “Global Hardware now stands at the ready. Eighty Transport Chambers are functional around the planet, and will each accommodate the transfer of up to nine individuals. The minds of these individuals, together with select Heads of State, will then be Assimilated into The Collective: a Techno- Omniscience for future gen . . . “
I drifted back in thought to my recent visit of said Collective. Surreptitiously conjoined beneath the elaborate superficial resort that was showcased on the surface, the Real Collective was actually a Mega-Information Processor: a central routing cluster, inter-faced by massive conductors, encompassing composites and intricate capacitives. It was entirely self-sustaining; an entity of sorts, which had all its inertial requirements satisfied via Geo-Thermal-Energies, and Artificial Intelligence. Every component of the Technopolis was ingeniously redundant. In all, it was a technological maelstrom; for it breathed in human thought and exhaled the fresh smells of technology . . . plastics and ozone. And it was now ready to accept digitized uploads of Human Intelligence.
This Human Intelligence, this Mindpower would come in time and the entire complex would then become spirited. This Collective, human conscience would then meld with the ever-growing Artificial Intelligence and be stored, sustained through future history from this single location. The entirety of it engineered to run for the next Hundred Thousand years.
As the conference call continued I witnessed before me the usual accompaniment of people, along with Veetra, who looked upon me from across the complex, from another conferencing station, seeming wanting to speak with me, but was too engaged with the call. At one moment, when our glances crossed, she did make to me the oddest of gestures in that she appeared to be moving her hand, as if stroking canvas with a paintbrush. A comforting smile she then imparted unto me. I remembered back to my grandmother and her painting that hung in the hallway. And though the action was just fleeting, it struck my mind . . .
Veetra had beside her two new assistants, Sinclair and Bethesda. They both were epicene and had an odd, vacillative transparency to their being. We had met only briefly on a previous occasion, shaking hands, hugging; their physical composition described simply as . . . energy – which I came to learn was what was to become of the people who paid (donated) incredible sums of money to surrender their physical
bodies and live (exist) spiritually in the Collective.
The conference call ended. As to why my presence was required I could only guess -- for Veetra was now nowhere to be seen. So I set about looking for her, to ask her if . . . then somberly realized . . . she had been the painter of the portrait. She was indeed my long-lost grandmother, probably having summoned me here to say a formal goodbye. But I understood. Her duties as part of the Intellect would change at a moment’s notice.
And so, I bided my time, wandering the Portal, thinking of the people and the great many assignments that I had undertaken over the past several years. I had been granted meetings with many of these individuals, ‘super-minds’, ‘technocrats’ of modern industry (Futurists, as I would refer to them as). Often, I’d fly off to their homes, their compounds, on private jets and helicopters, have brunch or dinner with them -- served in the utmost of elegant settings -- all the while discussing their purported contributions to The Intellect. They would then proudly display to me their Transport Chambers; technologically elaborative rooms where, when the time came, they and their loved ones would retire, then transport themselves to the Collective.