It’s called the computational theory, in case you’re interested. You’ve heard of mano a mano, right? Today we talk about nano a nano. I know our society is outre; let’s just call it good ole-fashioned strange. What is nano? Did you know these little creeps—that’s what I call nano devices—have cloud detectors? Anyone in possession of these little dudes can steal your thoughts the way a thief pilfers your pocketbook. They’ve stealthily crept into our world, and they’re taking charge. You may not know this, but nanos are the pathway to the devil. Have you ever heard the expression Big Brother? Nanos are more like Big Cloud. Did you really think your thoughts were private? Someone’s probably listening to you right now, and they most likely don’t like what they’re hearing.
Do you want to know something else? I wouldn’t put it past daddy dearest to use those things on Mom or me. That’s why I’ve made a small purchase. It’s called a bano. What does it do? It’s kinda like what you guys used to call spyware, except this is a little more effective. Think about it. Instead of a child lock, I possess an Eisenstein block. No, no! Don’t feel sorry for me; I’ve got this!
What do the men in black do? I don’t know; maybe you should ask Big Ben. They always come to our house late, you know, in the wee hours of the morning. They don’t eat. They don’t drink. I’m not even sure they breathe. They just glare at my father and whisper in low tones. How do I know? You may not like this, but with the help of Terby, I’ve wired the kitchen. I hear their conversations in real time. You want to know what they’re saying, don’t you? Sorry, dudes, that’s top secret. I want to live to see another day!
I can tell you this. My dad is one of those guys who is impacting the undercurrent of the world; He’s one of those real movers and shakers. He’s the guy who’s causing things to happen, and then they happen, and no one knows how they happened. Got it?
All right, are we straight? I’m going to make some more cheesy conversation with my father.
“Dad, what is it that you’ve been working on anyway?” Benjamin picks up the paper, staring at the headline “Let’s Fly Home!” He shakes his head. “They are pesky creatures though. The world would probably be better off without them!”
“Why, Pops? why would you say that?” I interject. “Have they ever done anything to us?”
“Here! Eat your eggs!” Monica snaps as she abruptly bangs the plate on the table. She walks back to the window, staring blankly at the sky. “You know the interesting thing about eggs?”
I say, “They crack!”
Hmm. Have you ever said something, thinking it was profound, and it was totally ignored?
“They scare me! What do you want me to say?” Monica asks.
It wasn’t typical at all for her to sound so worried. After all, didn’t Dad have everything under control?
“What’s your job, Pops? I mean, you know, from one Eisenstein to another?” I loved to play with my dad, if you haven’t noticed.
Benjamin takes his glasses off, glaring suspiciously at me. My dad had these really curly lashes that seemed to spiral upward whenever he was up to something.
“My job is to be an Eisenstein,” he responds curiously. “I serve our country, of course, but being an Eisenstein comes first.” Dad snickers. “You know, it’s a chicken-and-egg kind of thing.”
Friggin’ amazing; we’re back to that again. I nod. “Got it, Pops,” I say, wondering why mom is so mad.
Monica glares over at her husband. “What does that mean, Benjamin? Are we all going to have to evacuate? Or, let’s see, are the aliens going to kill everyone except you?”
My father’s mouth curls up like a cunning serpent. “It’s my job to figure out how to defend our nation, Monica, like all Eisensteins before me. You know that! Why are you picking a fight with me anyway? Besides, Eisensteins don’t have to explain themselves; it would just take too much time!”
There it is—the standard Eisenstein line that has been working for centuries.
Monica remains quiet—no words, no communication—as usual. There is just silence.
Frozen moment? Portal in time? Trust me, there’s a lot more going on here than meets the eye. My parents have secrets—puzzles and pieces. I wonder if she is going to hit him over the top of the head with her oversize frying pan. You know—crack his head open like an egg.
“And if that doesn’t work?” I add, sticking a piece of artificial toast in my mouth. “I mean, what happens if the unpredictable occurs? I mean, like you always say, Dad, unless you can control all of the variables, you may get a different response from the desired one.”
Dad nods. Honestly, I don’t think he’s paying attention to me anyway. I once heard a man named Uncle Solly say Dad would make a good poker player.
I kind of laugh inside. My dad hates it when I’m right; he just doesn’t know what to say. Sometimes he just comes up with some bullshit to get me off the subject. Here it comes.
“It’s called teleportation, son. It’s a way of programming a human being’s genetic codes and then mapping them into a sort of transportation machine and transporting them over long distances.”
I flash a smile. “In English, Pops.”
“Okay, I’ll give you a pedestrian definition.”
Monica shakes her head. “Drum roll!” We both start to make our funny sounds that we usually do whenever Dad starts to act prophetic.
“Very funny. Perhaps the two of you will be on ‘The Gwen Davis Show’ one day! Just because both of you are so entertaining, I will tell you. Picture a fax machine. Picture how you place the paper inside the machine, hit some buttons, and then it travels across the country. In the same way, we can send another human being hurtling toward the East Coast—a perfect copy.”
“It’s that easy?” I quip. “Have you ever tried it?”
Benjamin appears amused. “Perhaps Mom would like to fax me somewhere, but for the time being, I’m here! No, Michael, we have not been able to figure out some of the questions. They have perplexed us for a very long time. You see, a human being is not a piece of paper. First, we need to completely figure out the genetic code for everything that is inside the human mind and body. Second, perhaps a little easier, we can then program all of its complexities into the machine.” My dad winces. “It really won’t be a machine. Actually it will be more of a Teslalike subatomic energy force. I can’t explain all that stuff now.”
“Okay, that doesn’t seem that hard to me,” I say.
“Spoken like a true Eisenstein! But here comes the hard part, Michael.” A sparkle seems to flash spontaneously into Ben Eisenstein’s eyes. “Then we have to destroy the original before the new one can exist.”
“Destroy? I thought you liked me, Pops!” It’s interesting how I make a joke every time something serious is at stake. Take the word “destroy.” I wanted to say, “Eisensteins are good at destruction, aren’t they?” But that depresses me more than you know. I can’t allow myself to get depressed, right? I might do something I can’t undo.
“Why? There has to be a better solution!” I retort emphatically, pivoting from a mood I may not be able to recover from.
“Because you can’t have two identical genetic-coded individuals in the universe—at least not our universe! That’s the problem.”
“Humph!” I say. “So all we have to do is transport ourselves to another universe. I’ll figure it out, Dad; don’t you worry!”
Monica strolls over to the window, noting an array of elliptical saucers flying frantically over our house, exiting their prior home in the ocean. As I watch my mom, I know what she’s thinking: “What the hell does my husband know about this?”
My thoughts? I’ll just ask Terby. She has some interesting theories; one of them is something about the ETs having a surveillance plan on our house. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was right on.
“Where will they go?” she whispers eerily.
> “Probably Mars… perhaps the moon. We’ve already spotted a pretty huge air hangar over there. We don’t need to worry about this strain of ETs.” Benjamin’s face remains uncharacteristically calm and stoic. “I know, Monica. The world will be counting on us to figure that out… that’s what Eisensteins do.”
There it is again—the old-fashioned “Eisensteins know everything” card. Well played, Dad. I close my eyes momentarily, trying hard to envision a world without explosions, weapons of destruction, and annihilation. I have no intention of becoming my dad. I say over and over again that I’m going to escape.
Do you know there’s a study out there that indicates that DNA is passed from children to children? Sure you do. But what is more interesting is that parental experiences can change body chemistry, and those changes can be passed down to children as well. In other words, extreme trauma and all its effects are in my body and my brain. So Dad, I muse, generations of Eisensteins have created my demise. Have you thought about that? I take a deep breath. I dare not say it aloud.
“Michael’s just a little boy!” Monica cries, trying to hold back her tears.
Benjamin’s stares into his wife’s beautiful, complicated eyes. “Today he’s a boy; tomorrow he’ll be a man! We’re going to need him,” Benjamin says matter-of-factly.
“Meaning what?” Monica retorts abrasively.
“Don’t worry, Monica,” Benjamin says, winking.
But my mom wasn’t smiling—not at all. It was at that moment that I decided I didn’t want to become an assassin; I was going to be missing from the long list of serial murderers in my family. I have another plan.
CHAPTER 3
June 2, 2378
11:19 a.m.
The sky looks like a surreal game of “Angry ETs,” a popular video game that I played when I was a kid. My father’s door to his office is unlocked. His computer sits empty, waiting for little ole me.
My father must think he is the ultimate of cool. You know, like a Jewish James Bond. But what he doesn’t know is that I’ve cracked his secret encrypting code. How? Don’t ask, man. I may have to kill you.
Anyway, his files are stored in another microscopic encrypted file simply called “majstro.”
“Okay, cool. I’m in!”
Now here’s how it gets dicey. In the year 2378, you don’t leave paper trails. The cloud knows everything. It’s kinda like God wrapped inside of a Dr. Strangelove neutrino; it’s what scientists refer to as zero mass. Talk about encryption; the cloud’s basic substance is so small that molecules look like skyscrapers. That’s nano small, right?
Anyway, deep inside of an opened atom, you’ll find electrons spinning around the nucleus, kinda racing, with little NASCAR drivers. Inside those little dudes are something called quarks. Yes, they are invisible to the naked eye, but they’re there; trust me. They’re hangin’ out like little quirky spies. “You can run, but you can’t hide” is my motto.
I’m running my numbers right now; with any luck, I’ll be able to access my father’s files. What’s in his files? Millions of secret tapes, like recordings of actual happenings.
So who does my dad access? Who do you think? She’s called the president of the American Isles.
“Can’t trust anyone, Michael. Knowledge is power, and power is information.” I remember nodding.
“Sure, Dad, I get it. It’s an Eisenstein’s right to know what everyone is thinking, right? Especially if they’re world leaders; that’s how we protect people.”
I shake my head. I used to get lessons on espionage with my morning bowl of cereal. Eisenstein’s have been eavesdropping on world leaders, even their own, for centuries. Still with me?
Now this is the cool part. My father, as well as many Eisensteins in previous generations, has invented something called a QCR. The Q stands for “quark,” and the C and R stand for “covert resolution.” It lets the user make a sort of recording of real people cast inside a cosmic memory. Here’s the kicker: it’s like the programs Movie Maker and iMovie that ancients created in the past. Yet this particular QCR records thoughts, reflections, and memories into a viable movie experience.
Okay! I just have to erase my quark cookies and I’m going to hit play. I’m getting the chills; what about you? My fingers are vibrating like nervous little soldiers as I supply the mathematical code. I’m in! I’m hitting play on the recording labeled “President Cox—A ride in the Sierra Mountains.”
I’m hearing the president of the American Isles’ thoughts, and I’m watching the tape. President Stephanie Cox stops riding momentarily. She squints upward, peering into the sky. She thinks about her father, the previous vice president of the American Isles. She asks for her dead father’s help. She stares at an ET mother ship lingering directly over her head.
The tape reveals that she is thinking again. Stephanie Cox says the words “Shit! There they are! What do they want? Damn that Eisenstein! What’s he hiding from me? Who in the hell is he working for, anyway?”
I hit “save as” and make a copy for myself. I can’t help but wonder why President Cox is so paranoid, especially about my father. So my dad has been spying on President Cox? Isn’t that called treason? Does it surprise me? Hardly.
I tiptoe out of my father’s office, holding the clandestine tape, and I place it in my lower dresser drawer. Yet the second that I lock my drawer with the encrypted code, I cleverly double-lock his computer with antitheft devices using wave mechanics; it’s a good thing that I’ve taken a course on algorithms and statistical mechanics.
“My dad’s been busy,” I whisper. “He’s like a double-o nerd eavesdropping on the most powerful person in the world. Well, so he thinks.”
The thought of my father methodically recording and snooping on the president upsets me. After all, she is the president. Was Stephanie Cox right? Was my dad involved in a conspiracy? Against whom? The ETs? What was he doing? Whom did he know? More importantly, what was I going to do about it?
October 12, 2377
11:13 a.m.
I think of the legacy—my legacy. I hate the term “descendant.” It doesn’t fit me. I don’t know why. Will the government come knocking on my door one day? Who will be our enemy? What weapons will the government want me to invent one day?
My head begins to ache. This time the pounding increases in severity and intensity. Then I feel my own cloud; my own foggy depression sets in. I feel as if the world has dropped a thousand-pound weight not on my back but into my prefrontal cortex—yes, the anterior part. This is where the history of my family resides—the explosions, the serial murders—but oddly, the lack of conscience weighs on me like a cloud of frozen black ice, melting and seeping into my soul. Do I have a technical explanation? Yes, of course I do. I suffer from the same thing that most psychopaths suffer from; it’s called the deterioration of the amygdala.
Yes, you’re ahead of me already. Yes, I’m taking pills. Yes, I’ve been under observation. However, here’s the rub: once the amygdala deteriorates past a certain point, you’re gone, and you become the mass murderer you’re supposed to become. I’m fighting it. Please help me.
The fog? I remember taking a vacation with my parents a few years ago. This vacation was sort of a road trip, except we were transported by flying cars, supersonic, trains and, actually, a regular boat to get to our destination—a secluded place by the Tasman Sea. In case you’re interested, my father couldn’t go on a normal vacation; for obvious reasons, we all had to be sequestered.
Sequestered? That’s a big word. Were we criminals? Misfits? Exactly what were we?
We stayed in an old Victorian-style house off the coast. There is a really cool view by day, and usually by midafternoon the fog would set in, like a monstrous, cryptic sphinx. That’s when I would see the kiwi birds. The kiwi is a flightless fowl. What good is a flightless bird? I used to observe them right outside my window, just walking arou
nd like little wingless losers. I didn’t want to tell anyone, but I kind of related to those pathetic, hapless wingless creatures.
I’m now sitting quietly at my desk. I’ve committed my little act of treason against my father. Not so little, right? Yes, I know some of his secrets. I know about his snooping and his spying on the president of the American Isles. But I need to know these things. I come by it naturally; don’t you think?
I can feel depression moving through me like a medley swimmer stroking frantically for the finish line. Do all teenagers fight depression? I stare out my window. I still see the skies crowded with flying saucers whisking to and fro. I’m sure my mother is frightened. I worry about my mother.
I motion to Terby, petting her frenetically. Whenever I feel a spell of sadness coming on, I think of it as black water choking me, starving my soul. My particular condition, genocidal syndrome, arrives in dark waves. The pounding in my head increases, and my entire cranium feels as if it is filling up with fluid, perhaps even suffocating; it’s kind of like primitive waterboarding, except it’s coming from within.
There’s a particular summit in New Zealand that sort of reminds me of what my depression feels like. It’s an anomalous mountain that extends its craggy exterior into the sky. Its jagged structures thrust up to the eye in the sky—that’s what I call the sun—surrounded by milky, puffy clouds shaped like the bodies of humans. Each of these vaporous, puffy angels strangely takes on a different hue, making the sky appear like a circular stained glass ceiling swirling around the haughty eye. Oddly, the human kiwis call the mountain Lover’s Leap. Why? Because one of these craggy massifs looks like a boy, and the other looked like a girl; local lore says they were kissing. Unfortunately, on one rainy night, a swift bolt of lightning hit the rocky female silhouette, sending the craggy caricature, hurtling downward, crashing through the ceiling of a nameless cave.
When summer finally prevails, frozen snow begins melting, expelling massive amounts of water that sprawl downward from the mountain, cascading through the hole in the top of the cave. The cave itself consists of layers and layers of diverse substratum elevations; consequently, the renegade water is hurled into the bowels of the cave. Today the cave is known for its utter darkness and boasts what they call black water. I call it me.
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