System Seven

by Parks, Michael

  “It is possible to join meta essence to a body. The process and ethics involved are topics for another time. We will address Kaiya’s fate when it becomes necessary to. Right now, a briefing before we split up. Our time here is almost done.”

  On the table sat a silver attaché case. He rested a hand on it. “I spoke briefly of the Change but there is more to know. Prophesied over five hundred years ago, the Change was to be a person with powers allowing the Runa Korda a chance at altering the course of history. By that I mean at least stemming the worst of what the Comannda does, though most believe the Change will allow us to topple the Comannda altogether. How that would play out is debated as the Words are not clear. Some believe it can be done without exposing the secrets all at once. Others believe it will trigger Armageddon. Certainly the Conflict is shown as being a tumultuous and grave period. I think it is safe to say it has begun. We now know the Change consists of you two and that you are both with us. Our goal is to keep you safe and help you master your abilities. Alignments are occurring that offer confidence we are on the right track. We will do our best to prepare you for whatever lies ahead.”

  Anki nodded. “Prepared is good.”

  “To start, you need to know more about your modifications.” He popped the latches on the attaché case and turned it to face them. Inside, several gray metal tubes of various diameters and lengths lay ensconced in fitted rubber molding. He withdrew a small penlight from the case and shined its light at them. Unscrewing the lid revealed the battery compartment. He slid out the three tiny disc shaped batteries, flipped each, and re-inserted them. “Reverse polarity. The light won’t work. But the more important functions of the pen now will.”

  He stood and held the pen light against his belly, which earned him looks.

  “Press and hold the clip for three seconds. The signals emitted will start a reaction according to the setting you select. There are four settings, the first always being ‘neutral’ or your natural state. The second is olive, as found in Asians. Third, brown as found in Hispanics and the fourth is mulatto. Each setting has a shade parameter determined by screwing the pen’s clip right to left, lightest to darkest. You will have up to two minutes of conversion time while the melanocyte alteration occurs and pigmentation becomes uniform to the programming.” He held up the penlight. “First function then, is to alter your skin color.”

  Austin shook his head in amazement.

  Edward stowed the penlight in his shirt pocket and retrieved a pencil-thin aluminum tube from the case.

  “Anki, you asked about the holes at the top of your gum lines. Our answer was contrived; they aren’t for sinus drainage in case of infection.” He lifted the briefcase’s rubber molding to expose a screen and keypad. It powered up at a touch, revealing a computer generated image of his profile. He tapped a few keys and placed the tube near the screen.

  “Low power signal for program download.” He unscrewed the cap from the tube and slipped the open end between his teeth and lips. At the top of his gum line his face bulged and began to throb as things moved, sliding rapidly from the tube into his face. He emptied another tube in the same fashion at the other hole.

  “What the...?” Anki stared. Johan watched, mesmerized as the druid’s face pulsated with the movement of whatever crawled around inside it.

  “While grotesque, these are my personal biocats. Like caterpillars but created specifically for this service. They will traverse catacombs woven under my face to a pre-set location and then expand and stretch themselves according to the program, thus shaping my face. They will even act as temporary tie-offs, cinching muscles and tensioning cartilage to help reshape areas such as my nose, eyes and lips.”

  “Biological?”

  “Yes, our own basic lifeforms.”

  Edward’s skin had become noticeably darker and areas of his face had smoothed into a different shape. His brow appeared fuller, his lips and cheeks ample, and his eyes more oval. “Once in place, they will lock and retain their shape and position. Their cellular cohesion and function is maintained by absorbing nutrients from the walls of the catacombs, which are membranic. Their energy source for motor systems and locking is achieved through bioelectromagnetic effect and is boosted when you are in urban areas where heavier fields exist.”

  Anki put her hands to her cheeks. “I’m supposed to put bugs in my face?”

  Edward nodded. “You will get used to it. It helps that the biocats are coated in a mild local anesthesia in the tubes. But even dry they are not intolerable in motion. There are also creams that induce localized swelling to achieve a desired facial topology, though the effects are time-limited. Now, this pen also drives four more functions.”

  Edward’s demonstrations revealed the other bio-tweaks made to the three at the table.

  “Dynamic retensioning of muscle within the vocal folds allow for pitch alterations. After voice training, you will be able to vary your voiceprint by assignment.”

  Fingerprints were also dynamic although the cellular perforation process was unbearable for some without a local anesthetic. Pain and itching could persist for an hour or longer depending on the individual.

  He twisted the cap to enter another mode. “The pigmentary layers of the eye’s iris contain cells with pigment granules. Each of you have irises with modified cells that respond to nano-transmitters which in turn receive orders by this signal. Chromatophoric alterations recolor the eye within seconds.”

  He replaced the pen in its slot. “You’ll have your own cats, pens, and the unit to program them, called a deck. There is also a two-in-one smart phone if you can’t use the pens.”

  The three stared at the stranger before them. The now-black man with a baritone voice and a slight French accent continued.

  “The ability to change these physical properties extends your field usefulness by many factors. You will be trained how to gracefully make the changes in different situations without revealing yourself. Take careful notes. You are in a most valued group. You are now Atharrachdainn. May your secret serve you well.”

  • • •

  Director Tomov stood on a dais at the front of the conference room running the debrief. Orb cameras rose from the table on thin stalks to allow the Executive Board telepresence. Behind them stood two G1 agents replete in black, their faces hidden behind formless masks. They scanned continuously, reading him to his core.

  The conference rooms’ black glass walls and tabletop displayed imagery and video from the operation in question. Stills of the various subjects lined the walls. Videos looped scenes and one large video at the front of the room was paused, showing the outstretched form of Peter Brusse mid-air, moments before his dream rescue of the druid leader and his charge, Austin.

  “Extensive analysis has failed to explain how A2, Peter Brusse, initiated this level of control. There was suggestion that it was made to appear as Brusse but in fact managed by some other method, possibly combining.”

  An Executive with a Saudi accent spoke into the room. “What does this mean?”

  “It means the priests have actuated yet another extraordinary response to protect their charge, Austin Bakken. Volgograd is nearly there with combining so it’s possible the druids have succeeded ahead of us. In which case Brusse is just a figure, not a single entity with extraordinary power. Of course, Austin may be even more valuable, given their willingness to use Brusse in such a revealing manner.”

  Another voice, synthesized to disguise, asked, “What is Austin’s value?”

  “Still unknown.”

  “What of their prophecies?”

  “I cannot speak to that directly, sir, without sufficient information. You are aware what the legends state. We see one subject exhibiting unprecedented influence in the mesh.”

  “This must be resolved.”

  Director Tomov nodded. “Highest priority has been given to locating both targets. Patterns have been issued to all Signus teams and G3 are fully involved in the coordination. Overseer is en
gaged. There have been no incidents suggesting further release activity at this point.”

  “Locate him.” The synthesized voice said. “Locate them both and contain them. Lead this effort, director. All resources. Utilize Decimation Protocol if necessary. Whatever it takes. Do you understand, Director Tomov? Whatever it takes.”

  • • •

  A white Citroen van sped along a lane draped in the shade of English oaks. Thirty kilometers outside Epping Forest the farmlands and old growth forests shared land with country manors and small townships in sleepy elegance.

  City life seemed a sickly perversion by comparison. Here the accomplishments were in the order of the fields and the crops they yielded, in the standing homes and structures from centuries past – not in the model of Mercedes or BMW you drove or in your zip code. There was a harmony and quiet dignity in the way the people worked and lived here.

  Sean drove while Austin stared out the window.

  “What’s that?” he asked Austin. “You’ve got a willow’s look on your face.”

  “I just like it out here. America hasn’t got the grace England does.”

  “Grace? I think you haven’t traveled much. Grace is Milan or Venice or Athens or Bucharest. But I think I know what you mean. Okay, here we are.”

  Sean pulled off the road and stopped under a stand of trees lined with tall bushes. He took up a camera bag. “If anyone asks, we’re just out taking pics. If pressed, we’re taking stock photos to sell on the internet. I’ve got the business card.”

  “Farmland pics, got it. Big demand for that.” He grabbed his own bag.

  “Just another assignment.”

  They climbed out and pushed through the bushes. Beyond, an expanse of recently-tilled field stretched outward a quarter mile, half that across. Splotches of partially dried dirt made for good contrast. Sean produced the camera and began shooting. “Get started.”

  Austin took out a spongy yellow ball and tossed it on the ground. Dropping into the grid was easier now. The sense of ‘touch’ came from a direct experience of meta – rathad, the seventh sense. The ability to feel the underlying structure of the physical world allowed him to target it, to become entangled with it. Beyond that, it came down to the still-mysterious conversion of intention to actuation. Once connected to the yellow ball, he wanted it to roll and it did. Like in a lucid dream, the dreamer in him arranged for the change to occur.

  “Float it.”

  The ball rose into the air without effort.

  “Good. Now the empty can.”

  He tossed an aluminum can to the ground. With only slightly more effort, it rose into the air and spun slowly.

  “What’s Atharrachdainn mean?” he asked Sean.

  “It’s Celtic. To change. To become something else. Now try the full can.”

  One at a time, he floated the objects from his bag, each one heavier than the last. The red brick was the heaviest and was much easier this time. Handling two at once wasn’t something he could do yet. As expected, Sean instructed him to try. The yellow ball floated upward and hovered. Splitting attention to reach for the empty can caused the ball to fall. It seemed a case of either or, no matter what he tried.

  Sean saw him struggle. “Alright, let’s try something else.”

  At the edge of the field was the tilling machine used to turn the field. It was a smaller unit, no more than six feet wide, designed to be pulled behind a tractor. Sean nodded towards it.

  “You kidding? That’s gotta weigh half a ton.”

  “Last night’s increased dosage may help. Can’t hurt to try.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that.”

  Wrapping his attention around the tiller was awkward, probably because the thing was just so damn large and heavy. The obstacle was even considering that he could move it. Over the next several minutes he managed to focus and really feel the machine. With some mental adjustment, an understanding came. Heavy yes, but when he thought of moving it, a feeling grew. The same intention that let him lift bricks blossomed by degrees until he thought he might actually be able to lift the tiller.

  Sean sensed the change and looked over. “There you go. Be careful with it.”

  In his mind’s eye, the machine became a three-dimensional cutout, its form something he wrapped his entire rathad around. Potential surged.

  “Here goes.”

  The flash of effort immediately narrowed his senses. The field and sky and his own body disappeared – leaving only the machine and its relationship with Raon. The grid was just X, Y, and Z and he was going to move that thing in Z, straight up.

  The tiller creaked under an imprecise pressure. A fender guard bent inward.

  “Easy does it,” Sean said, amazement in his voice.

  “Ain’t nothin’ easy about this,” he said with clenched teeth. The tiller raised several inches from the dirt before a headache burned outward like lightning forks. He panicked and set the machine down with a thud.

  “Good fucking job, mate. Most impressive.”

  He circled back into the shade of the trees rubbing his head, staring at the grid before him. He’d spent a lifetime taking it for granted – knowing now that it could be altered so severely with just human thought was both intoxicating and frightening as hell.

  “You’re telling the truth, I hope,” he told Sean.

  “About what?”

  “About me being the only one who can do this kind of TK. That neural protein research is exclusive to the Runa Korda.”

  “As far as I know we’re the first.”

  “So they could have this tech. They could have found someone like me.”

  “It’s possible, sure, but we’ve had no indication. None. You worried about duking it out with another TK?”

  There was that but what he didn’t say or even think about was the fear of being turned into a weapon without the freedom to say no.

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  • • •

  The windows of the cottage looked out over an unkempt yard facing the English Channel. Johan wiped a pane clean to watch the waves march in, an endless army on a suicide mission to dash against the stone-lined shore. The old man lived there alone and like a biological chimney he smoked his pipe nearly constantly. The cottage held two small bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, and a living room made into an office. Covering the walls were paper sketches pinned three and four deep or more. Some were detailed and drawn with care, others were hastily done and only roughly suggestive. Faces, places, scenes, and storyboards of all kinds filled the living room and spilled onto the kitchen’s walls.

  Two easy chairs faced the windows, a small table and lamp between them. The lamp’s shade was a sickly mustard color. The curtains, too, were nicotine-stained. The house sat still in time, evidenced by magazines dated three decades ago and furniture much older than that. The phone, buried beneath sheets of sketches and newspaper clippings on an antique desk, was the only visible hint of the modern world. A small woodstove might have been nineteenth century.

  He waited and listened while the old man finished work on a sketch.

  His name was Pons, a Frenchman, another long-toothed druid probably older than Edward. He spoke four languages and had forgotten three others though he cussed fluently in all seven. He demonstrated that while he worked his sketch. Pons was thin, of average height with tousled gray hair cut short, probably with scissors from the desk. His gray beard was similarly short but kept more neatly. He wore farmer’s overalls, old brown boots, and a plain white t-shirt. Beneath the beard, a pale and wrinkled face focused on the paper. Still trying not to gag on the smoke, Johan considered going outside again.

  “Alright, then. That will have to do.” Pons folded the sketch in fourths and tucked it into a pigeon hole in his desk. He turned to face him. A pipe hung from the corner of his mouth.

  “An honor to meet you, Johan. I did not mean to be rude. I forget how important time is to people.”

  “You sketch your dreams.” />
  “I do. I’m no welet but I’ve got sketches that depict a lot of what has come to pass. That’s what I do – study dreams.”

  “I’m here to learn more about them.”

  “That you are, yes, and more. I expect to eventually learn from you but we have to get you rolling first. What you did for Cathbad was bold and reckless, which just so happened to be the exact thing needed at the time. I hope that was instinct because it will make my job much easier if you already have it.” He emptied his pipe into an ashtray and stamped out the embers. “Go and crack the windows, open the door. You aren’t used to the smoke and I shouldn’t be.”

  They sat in the easy chairs and enjoyed the breeze off the channel. Long weeds swayed outside the windows, a lazy dance accompanied by the surf’s lapping against the concrete beachhead beyond the yard.

  Pons produced a toothpick and used it in place of the pipe. “You understand, no one wants you going into Saoghal making dreams that attract every damned korjé there is. It is like real life: to control the experience you need to temper your intention at all times. To control your intention, you need to know you are dreaming.”

  “Lucid dreaming.”

  “Yes. You will become aware. Night will become another kind of day. You will find it is a high buy-in until you are used to it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He studied the yellow-orange nicotine-stained windowpanes. Sunlight passed through them and emerged a sickly semblance. A little like his former self passing through the gauntlet of change.

  “Relax, you will get used to it,” Pons said, reading him. “Just takes time. You’ve had your basic training.”

  Seagulls squawked overhead, soaring on channel winds. The same winds rang the chimes on the porch. In the distance a ferry churned the sea white in its wake.

  The flow of meta reached and left his brain. Sensory imagery and memory-born associations mixed to create the always-new pinnacle of emotion, the subtle paint on the canvas that formed reality. Each moment, captured in turn, fed back into the meta in an endless loop of creation, yielding awareness, experience, and memory.