Idempotency

by Joshua Wright

  “It’s funny, you know . . .” Coglin smiled, his gun precariously teetering on his knee. “When you’re young, you think the hard part about getting old will be the pain. You know—getting sick, or battling cancer, or Alzheimer's, or—” He chuckled, but halted himself quickly. “What am I saying? You don’t know. You won’t have to deal with those things.” He unbuttoned the three top buttons on his light-blue button-down shirt. Sweat could be seen wicking its way up his white undershirt.

  He continued, “Anyhow. The thing about being old is that nothing is ever new. A hundred years ago people would have kids, and then grandkids, and they’d realize those new moments vicariously through their next of kin. But now? Can’t even do that. Where would we put ’em all? And even if you do have one or two kids, at some point you can’t be part of the family. Would a thirty-year-old really get to participate in the rearing of his great-great-great-great-great-grandchild? No. Children are becoming earth’s last great finite natural resource. They are the new gold standard.

  “And so here I sit. An old man with no children. No gold left in his pockets. Coughing. Dying. Dying from one of the few remaining diseases left on earth that can kill a man. I have just a few days left, if that, and the pain—oh, how I welcome the pain!—it’s as close to a new experience as you can get when you’re my age. And yet, I try to persist; I’m trying desperately to have my soul live on in a new body—your friend Dylan there.” He gestured with the gun toward Dylan.

  “But why would I want to? God knows I’m not doing it for the opportunity to be inundated with more decades of society’s same-old, same-old. More depravity. More of the same oversexed, ultraviolent, ubiquitous immoralities that plague our decaying culture. No!” His voice, moments before booming, softened to silk as he said, “Yet I do it still. Why, Sindhu? Why?” He drew a deep breath through his nose. “I’ll tell you, Sindhu: I do it for God!” He said this through clenched teeth as he gestured grandly at the church around him. “I do it for humanity. Hell, I even do it for you, Sindhu. For you! I will save even you, the one who threatens me in my darkest hour. I will turn my cheek to you, because God wills it.”

  Sindhu responded with venom in her voice. “You’re insane. A relic of fanaticism. You don’t understand suffering. The only way you will help humanity is if you die like your God intends.”

  He stood up and walked slowly toward her, the gun waving gently near his hip, and when he spoke, his tone became jovial. “Do you like the place? You’re sitting in an exact replica of Thomas Kirche—or ‘Saint Thomas Church for the less educated. I noted from your résumé that you’ve never studied German. The Thomas Kirche was home to Johann Sebastian Bach.” Coglin sat down next to her, letting out a grunt as the act of sitting relieved his knees from gravity’s unending pull.

  He continued, “You at least know who Bach is, right? This was his home. He was the thomaskantor—a fancy way of saying ‘music director.’ He also maintained the organ that was here at the time, though that organ is long gone. You’ll note that there are two organs here now.” Coglin waved his hand toward a smaller organ behind them near the transept opposite where Sindhu had entered, then toward the much larger grand organ at the rear of the church. “The smaller organ is the oldest, but was deemed unsuitable for Bach’s masterpieces shortly after it was installed. A fair assessment, if you ask me. The larger organ was built near the turn of the second millennium. It’s not bad—maybe a little tinny.”

  The three of them sat on the pew as if they were waiting for a bus. Coglin took a deep breath and looked quizzical. “You know, initially we were going to build a replica of the Church of Saint Titus in Greece, but as it turned out, that church was originally a mosque! Ha! God forbid we worship in the same home as those fanatical lunatics! How could we possibly allow a replica of Muslim mosque? Well, we couldn’t. Not only that, but it was far too humble of a structure. We needed grandiosity—opulence! I needed a structure worthy of the Titus facility.”

  Coglin began to laugh, a crackly noise that pained Sindhu’s ears. “Wow, I’m sorry, excuse me. I must be boring you to tears. Let’s move on to more important topics, shall we?”

  He rose again, his knees popping, and stood directly in front of Sindhu with his torso just below her eye level. He rubbed the cold barrel of the gun against her cheek, then down her neck. She closed her eyes in disgust and turned her face away. He trailed the gun down her shoulder and her breath hardened. She twisted as he pushed on her back and brought the gun down to the bottom of her shirt. Finally, he grabbed and pulled up her shirt from behind. Animated letters swirled across her back. The letters quickly regained their organized momentum and began raining quickly down her back.

  “Did you think you were hiding here? I have my sources within SOP. I knew you were here. Simeon obfuscated your location well, but we knew there was a rat in the sewer somewhere. It was just a matter of time before you showed yourself. Rats always come out to feed at some point.” He looked at her back and said, “You know, Sindhu, your aniToo is the subject of some curiosity on the darkVirts these days. My security team were idiots for not identifying you purely from your aniToo. Did you know you’ve become somewhat of a celebrity since you took out our android at the Pismo slum? Tell me, what’s your aniToo mean?”

  Sindhu gritted her teeth. She shifted her head up slightly to meet his gaze, but her eyes could scarcely be seen through the short, sweat-matted dark hair that fell in front of them. “It means that men who rationalize their power through fanatic godliness are compensating for a lack of other talents. And by men, I mean you. And by compensating, I mean that you have a very small cock—”

  The butt of Coglin’s gun slapped across Sindhu’s chin just as the door to the back of the church flung open. Dr. Okafor came bursting through, three androids accompanying her.

  “You will regret having said that, you piece of Indian slum filth.”

  Nearly an hour had past since Dr. Okafor had arrived. Coglin had initially busied himself by communicating with Kane, who had begun searching the Laughlin slum for SOP. Coglin was now keeping busy by spiraling closer toward madness or death, whichever came first.

  “Doctor,” Coglin nearly spat the word out of his frothing mouth, “what’s the verdict?”

  Now sitting on the pew next to Dylan, Dr. Okafor held a small device in her left hand and she slowly rotated it around Dylan’s forehead. In her own BUI, she attempted to distill a myriad of metrics into a coherent, singular Boolean value. Was Dylan still Dylan, or was Dylan now Coglin? The process was, of course, ridiculous. There was no black-and-white answer. Dylan—or whatever pieces were left of him now—would require months of premeditative therapy to be steered properly toward his future psyche, whichever that may be.

  The entirety of her actions made Kya Okafor sick to her stomach. How could she have been so blinded by her own ambition to have willingly ruined the soul of this person in front of her, all stemming from the encouragement of the sick old man standing behind her now. It had seemed so simple at the start. She had been lured in by the appeal of like-minded individuals and their charismatic leader. Together, they would heal a sick world.

  “Doctor!” Coglin was getting agitated. He stood over her shoulder as if his closeness might help speed along her diagnosis.

  She turned slowly, stood, then said, “Reverend, there are nearly one hundred words meaning love in the ancient language of Sanskrit, yet in our bastardized version of English we simply love someone or we don’t. You ask me if he is you. Well, there may be parts of you in him, but he is not you.”

  The lines on Coglin’s face fell lifeless like a dropped jump rope. “So . . . idempotency . . . has been retained?”

  She sighed at Coglin’s clear lack of understanding around the complexity of gray and quickly gave up on offering any subsequent explanations. “Yes, idempotency has been retained.”

  “Oh, God.” Coglin began to laugh, and then almost cry. He stumbled backward, the backs of his knees hit the pew behind him
, and he slumped into it with a thud. “Oh God, I’m going to die. I’m really going to die. This is it. This—this—is how it ends? This can’t be it. This cannot be how it ends!”

  A door swung open wildly, then slammed shut with force behind the group, and Korak Searle came marching down the nave of the church. An arm’s-length behind him, a security officer shouted something about being restrained. Searle ignored him and walked to stand straight in front of the now maniacally laughing Reverend Coglin.

  “Reverend, I’ve come to understand what you are doing here, and I will not allow this to continue.”

  Coglin laughed even harder at this statement and, in a boisterous voice, mocked Searle. “Oh, you understand what I’m doing here, do you? You will not allow this to continue! Ha! You’re a joke, Searle. I’ve controlled you from the first day we met, and I’m still doing it, even now.”

  “Do not test me, Reverend, I have made powerful allies.” Searle spoke with force, and he shot Kya a harried glance as she came up to stand next to him.

  Coglin said, “I have powerful allies too, Korak, such as God . . . and this gun here.” He twirled the gun toward Searle’s face, and for the first time, Searle realized he was standing in a precarious place: between a madman and his disenfranchised followers.

  “Edward, whatever disagreements we may have in terms of how we get there, our end goals—”

  The gun erupted. Searle instinctively crouched at the sudden sound, but Kya Okafor fell awkwardly to the ground.

  “I accept your resignation, Doctor.” Coglin’s laugh turned into a blood-soaked hack.

  Momentarily stunned, Searle leaped toward Kya. She had fallen face-first, hitting her knees, then flopping forward, her head landing just inches from Coglin’s feet. Gingerly, Kane rolled her over. The bullet had entered her in the lower abdomen. She was alive and could be saved, but the severity of the wound was such that she needed immediate attention.

  Searle looked up, already anticipating how he could wrestle the gun free from Coglin, but Coglin, as usual, was a step ahead. He had risen to his feet and had backed up a few paces. He waved the gun, motioning Searle to sit on the pew with Dylan and Sindhu, both of whom had been quiet onlookers.

  “Please, Edward, she needs medical—”

  “Fuck you, Korak. She needs to die. Hell, maybe we all do at some point. Now sit the fuck down.”

  Searle considered his options: The gun was two meters away; Coglin was an old man with old reflexes. He guessed that he would be able to dislodge the gun, even if he did get shot. On the other hand, he was assuming that Coglin was not proficient with an illegal firearm; if he did know how to wield the deadly weapon, Searle’s employment might be permanently terminated. He decided to bide his time and sat next to the Indian woman. He wondered who she was, why she was here, and how on earth she had become involved in this tragedy.

  Coglin’s coughing was becoming incessant. He staggered to his right and sat down once more, directly opposite the three people whose fate he held in his shaky hand.

  “Look at us,” Coglin’s voice crackled and he coughed it away. “Aren’t we a group? A dying old man and his robots; a sheep lost from his flock, choking on his own pedantry; a doctor who can’t save herself; a salesman without a product; and an Indian woman hoping to save the world. I’m not sure who’s more pathetic. Probably me.”

  Coglin looked despondently down at his feet and mumbled, almost to himself, “So much pain and suffering over the years, and all for nothing.” He sighed. “How Christlike; even in my final hour, I am persecuted and tested. How dare you judge me.” He looked up, and he quoted scripture with a renewed vigor:

  “If the world hates you, know that it has hated me before it hated you.” He shook his head and began again, his voice rising with his anger: “Do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you.”

  Coglin stopped abruptly and motioned toward Sindhu with his gun. Quietly, he said, “You. The Indian girl. You’re boss is my fiery trial. You and your boss, Simeon. The great and powerful Simeon of SOP. Most believe he doesn’t exist. Oh, but I know better. I have faith. He exists and he torments me. He tests me. Over and over. Throughout the past four decades, he has tested me. Always destroying my plans—no, God’s plan!” His voice again rose pastorally into scripture, ”But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”

  Coglin paused. His head bobbed and his insane eyes flared open as he stated, “It’s true that I may be weak, but with your death, Sindhu, Simeon will feel Christ’s power—my power.” He raised his gun, pointing it directly between her earthly eyes.

  I’ve not accomplished a fraction of my goals, and yet I sit staring down the barrel of my failure. Please don’t let this be how it ends! Sindhu prayed to a God she didn’t believe in. This cannot be how it ends!

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Jay-san’s stomach gurgled; he really needed to hit the can. For hours he’d been clenching back what was bound to be a raucous toilet experience. There were two reasons for this: One, he didn’t want to leave in this time of crisis for SOP; and two, he hated using public restrooms—hated it. That the particular restrooms in question were frequented by slum dwellers who hadn’t seen a shower in years, and the fact that the toilets were baking under a sweltering hot Nevada sun—well, those facts only thickened his antipathy for the situation.

  Just for once, why couldn’t Simeon decide to hole up in Canada? Jay whined internally.

  As soon as Sindhu had gone into the church—finally!—he figured it was safe to make a move. Moreover, the appearance of the graviCopters was serendipitous—his bathroom visit would be perfectly timed. And so, when Jay-san finally made the decision to leave, it was understandable that his bowels became overly excited, demanding ever more stridently for freedom. The gurgling was so loud it almost drowned out the hum of the graviCopters.

  Jay-san stood up. As he did, he started to say, “Hey everyone—bad timing, but I really need to hit the can—” But when he got to the word can his shoelaces caught on his chair, and he came crashing down onto the dusty yurt floor, at the heels of Simeon and Nimbus. Nimbus jumped and twirled around in surprise. Simeon sighed heavily.

  “What the hell?” Jay asked in confusion, as he looked down at his shoes. His two shoelaces had been tied together and around the center stand of his chair.

  “How long, Jay?” Simeon asked without turning around. He was still staring outside.

  “What the hell are you talking about? Is this some kind of joke, Sim? Bad timing for a joke; I’m about to shit my pants.”

  “Nice. Funny. It’s a joke all right, you’re the punch line.” Sim chuckled, but his bass-filled laugh lacked the typical optimistic underpinnings. It sounded desperate—sad, even. He turned around. Everyone in the yurt was now standing and staring at Jay in bewilderment. Kristina was holding onto both Chicklet and Mitlee’s shoulders. Nimbus remained next to Simeon.

  “Don’t play coy, man,” Simeon continued. “I know you’re working with NRS. I’d had my doubts for a while now, ever since the Seattle incident. Grep doesn’t make a mistake like that in a million years.”

  Everyone in the yurt froze as the gravity of the conversation began to sink in. Mitlee gasped. Nimbus let out a quiet, “Oh no, Jay, no.”

  Grepman’s holoVid squinted as if in deep thought, an expression that did not go unnoticed by Jay. He thought back to that day at Carkeek Park in Seattle almost a year ago, when they first met Dylan. An errant software release had given away their location. At the time, everyone had expressed shock at Grepman’s carelessness, but Jay’s shock had been feigned. In fact, he had snuck onto Grep’s box and released the code— Grep’s only mistake that day had been trusting Jay-san with his own terminal.

  Jay’s thoughts returned to the present and he watched the wheels spin within Grep’s head. The man’s
face contorted, his squint twisted into confusion then contorted into anger. Jay returned his friend’s stare with a smile and a shrug.

  “I became convinced a few weeks ago. No one hacks into NRS security without a stolen encryptChip of some kind. You aren’t that smart. No one’s that smart. What amazes me is how dumb you must think I am.”

  Jay began to roll over and untie his shoelaces. Simeon walked a few paces and kicked him hard in the stomach. A foul stench immediately erupted into the air as Jay gasped for air and rolled into a fetal position.

  “Oh, for the love of—”

  Jay’s head popped up, venom showing on his face. He yelled, “Fuck you, Simeon!” His voice softened, “You’re right—you are stupid. Even with your suspicions you still gave up Sindhu and Dylan, and within minutes you’ll be property of NRS for immediate extradition to a corp tribunal—if they don’t outright decide to kill you, which they could easily do since you’re all kinds of off-the-grid anyways.”

  Simeon yelled to the kids, “Hand me that rope.” They both grabbed the rope without hesitation and tossed it back to him. “Thanks. Now start gathering our most important tech into our emergency packs. We’re going to have to leave soon.” The kids scurried away.

  Simeon knelt down and began to tie Jay up. Tightly. His ponytailed blond hair fell in front of him, and he gently flung it over his shoulder with his right hand. After securing his hands, Simeon grabbed Jay’s chin, preparing to bottle up his typically quiet mouth.

  The flames on Sim’s arm flickered softer now, and he asked, “Why, Jay? Why did you do it?”

  Jay-san cracked a smile. “Come on, Sim, you know why. I heard you talking to Nimbus a few minutes ago—even you are starting to wonder why we’re still trying. Why are we? It’s been decades and nothing has changed! It’s hopeless. We haven’t made a damn bit of difference. I’m tired of it all. Tired of your self-righteous bullshit. Tired of shitting my pants while living in the fucking asshole slums of America. We’re all going to live forever—why in hell would I want to live like this forever?”