What Lies Beyond the Stars

by Micael Goorjian

  CHAPTER 17

  THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT

  Rene Adiklein’s earthly existence began in the small town of Saint-Maurice in the Swiss canton of Valais, where French is the dominant language. His parents were unremarkable apart from being fluent in English, which they had learned in school. They met, fell in love, married, and both worked as tour guides at the Grotte aux Fées (Cave of the Fairies), prehistoric caves in the cliffs above the town that had drawn tourists since the mid-1800s. The Adikleins never intended on having children, but both miracles and mistakes do happen, and Rene Adiklein was both of them.

  From an early age, it was clear Rene was no ordinary child. At school he rarely played with the other children, but rather stood off to one side observing them, almost as if they were some exotic species. He attentively studied his parents as well, eventually going so far as to take detailed notes on their provincial habits. Perhaps as an outgrowth of this unusual degree of attention, young Rene possessed an astonishing ability to predict what people were going to do next. At breakfast he could tell if his mother was going to come home drunk from work that night. At school he could anticipate whether a child who rarely cheated was planning to sit next to Rene and peek at his answers on an upcoming test. Once, when a classmate attempted to bully Rene, he threatened to reveal that the boy was being sexually abused at home—something that had never been intimated by anyone. After that, Rene was never subjected to bullying again.

  Finishing at the top of his class at Collège de l’Abbaye Saint-Maurice, one of Switzerland’s most famous secondary schools, Rene headed off to Paris to study at the Sorbonne. While there, he devoured everything he could find on human behavior, including cultural anthropology, sociology, and psychology. Digging his way tirelessly through any existing knowledge of the human psyche, Rene sought not only to understand the roots of human motivation and desire, but to discover nutrient-rich soil beneath those roots that caused them to take the shapes they did. He earned three degrees: a master’s in psychology, a master’s in social behaviorism, and a doctorate in medical anthropology.

  Yet his studies in Paris were not enough. In order for Dr. Rene Adiklein to begin the great work that he had clearly been placed on earth to perform, he needed knowledge unavailable through traditional pedagogical means. New research was required at a level that could transform theory into practical tools. While outlining a proposal for his first research experiment, Adiklein realized he faced several major stumbling blocks. He would need grant money, of course, along with a college willing to support his rather unorthodox approach. More importantly, he would need to find the right subjects. He needed a wide range of psychological types, a difficult task even in Europe’s largest cities. Harder still would be finding men and women willing and able to psychologically open themselves up in ways that were not commonly acceptable in modern society.

  Then everything changed. Adiklein arrived in Berkeley, California, during the summer of 1966, just in time for the counterculture revolution. His move could not have been timed more perfectly. Amid the progressive upheaval of protests and sit-ins, of tie-dyed flower children and psychedelic experimentation, Rene found everything he needed, including funding.

  Soon after arriving in the Bay Area, Adiklein forged what would eventually become a lifelong relationship with an investment firm named Blanchefort and Rhodes. From its head offices in Europe, B&R became increasingly active in America in the late 1960s. They provided funds for the construction of San Francisco’s Transamerica Pyramid, which became the site of their West Coast offices, and expanded their profile to include increasingly more U.S. investments, particularly in pharmaceuticals, technology, and media.

  Learning through various channels about Adiklein’s proposed research, U.S. representatives of B&R contacted him for a meeting. Shortly thereafter, backed by the deep pockets of B&R, Adiklein conducted a full array of psychological trials, both at SRI International (Stanford Research Institute) and UC Berkeley, culminating in his most successful and secretive project, the Extended Dimensional Attention Study at Berkeley between 1968 and 1972.

  Not long after Stanley Milgram was getting research subjects to zap their neighbor, and just before Philip Zimbardo was turning his students into sadistic prison guards, Rene Adiklein was quietly digging his way deeper and deeper into the collective subconscious, past the neocortex, through the limbic system, all the way down to the reptilian brain, where he finally discovered what he was after: the philosopher’s stone of marketing, capable of turning dross into gold.

  Blake Dorsey hooked a left onto Pine off Kearny. On his way through Chinatown he tried again to calm his nerves. Breathe deeply. Just relax. At the next red light, he started digging in the glove box for those Focusing Your Intentions CDs Jane had lent him. But when he saw an ad on the side of a passing bus for L4B Expansion Worlds—Prepare to Bleed—December 14, he slammed the glove box shut. Deep breaths. Everything would be all right as long as he could tell Adiklein what was going on before the boss heard it from Mitch or some other V-Skies toady. If Blake played it right, he might even be able to impress Adiklein with his willingness to solicit guidance. Blake hit the gas.

  Reaching the top of Nob Hill, he quickly checked a new text from Jane.

  Text message: Dr. M got cops to correct bad rental car descrip from idiots at Enterprise. Now correct on MissPersReprt. No other news.

  Blake typed frantically while swerving around two old ladies in the crosswalk with matching hats and poodles. Hospitals? Credit Cards?

  Jane immediately texted back: No other news!

  Left on Jones, left on Post, left on Taylor. Blake couldn’t stand the hills and one-way streets in this part of the city. He had been invited to Adiklein’s private men’s club only once before. He had, of course, driven past it a thousand times. The inconspicuous brick building, half-covered in ivy and with no visible sign, sat on the corner of Taylor and Sutter. Shoppers, tourists, and junkies wandered past on the sidewalks outside, completely oblivious as to what and who lay just beyond those weathered brick walls.

  Since he was a guest and not a member, Blake used the main entrance. Heading up the steps, he quickly glanced down at his phone in hopes of news about Adam that might allow him to cancel this meeting. No such luck. Inside the massive double doors and behind the security desk loomed an enormous statue of an owl, the symbol of the private men’s club.

  “Hello, I’m Blake Dorsey, here for a meeting with Rene Adiklein.” Blake was already pulling out his identification for the security guard, who looked like a Muppet beneath the giant owl.

  “Welcome, Mr. Dorsey. Have you been a guest with us before?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ve already done the background check. I’m in the system.”

  Positioned at the heart of the club was a grand lounge with an open ceiling extending up six stories to the massive, stained-glass skylight floating high above. Tropical plants and a variety of armchairs, couches, and love seats were scattered about. The room centered around a fountain, an exact replica of the Pyramid Fountain of Versailles, only smaller. The club’s fountain also differed from the original in that it had been engineered to be virtually silent. Almost as remarkable, to Blake at least, was how the hundred or so club members in the room were equally quiet. They read, sipped tea, napped, and looked at electronic devices. But no one spoke.

  Blake walked around the room several times searching for Adiklein. Wandering past various nooks and small meeting rooms, Blake finally approached a friendly enough looking gentleman reading The Wall Street Journal. “Excuse me, sir,” Blake said quietly. The man looked blankly up at him. “Is this the Redwood Room? I’m looking for Rene Adiklein.”

  The gentleman turned back to his newspaper without a word.

  “Okay . . . I’m sorry, I’m just trying to find—” Blake felt a large hand firmly grip his left elbow. Turning, he looked up to see a man almost as tall as the owl statue dressed in a charcoal suit with a discreet bronze name tag.

  “Oh,
hey. I’m looking for—” The man placed a long finger to his lips. Then turning, the man silently guided Blake toward a massive staircase.

  The Redwood Room was a second-floor banquet hall, which seemed improbably long, and when Blake was ushered in, it was completely empty but for one person. Rene Adiklein sat at a small table at the far side of the room, having lunch while watching the giant flat-screen TV that hung behind the bar. Crossing the room Blake realized that for the first time he was about to witness Adiklein actually ingest food. Perhaps some great dietary secret of sprightly tech moguls was about to be revealed. Or perhaps the rumors that he ate only phosphorescent algae imported from the Philippines were about to be borne out.

  Adiklein’s lunch turned out to be quite simple, albeit odd: a sandwich of thinly sliced radish with sweet butter and sea salt on a baguette, which he was washing down with two small, red bottles of Sanbittèr. More interesting than his lunch was what he was watching on television. It was the new reality show America’s Most Popular. Blake knew it not only because it was an enormous ratings success but also because one of the digital advertising firms at Virtual Skies handled the show’s online media promotions.

  The premise of America’s Most Popular was straightforward. Each season people across America who had been voted most popular in high school were tracked down to see how they had fared in their adult lives. Like American Idol, judges spent the first half of the season whittling down contestants who had remained popular, while eliminating those who had fallen from grace. In the second half of the season, those who had made the cut earned lockers at the fictitious “High School USA,” where they engaged in a variety of nostalgic competitions—bake sales, dance-a-thons, spirit week skits—while viewers voted people off the show each week. For the season finale, on “prom night,” the two final contestants were crowned “Most Popular Man” and “Most Popular Woman.”

  As Blake reached the table, Adiklein continued to watch for a few long moments before turning to his guest with a playful grin. “I tell you, reality TV is among the most brilliant inventions of the past century. Anyone can be famous. Anyone can become the star of their own show.” Adiklein took a small bite of his radish sandwich. “And why not? Why do we need actors and scripts when we can watch the real thing unfold right before our eyes?”

  Adiklein had once written an op-ed for Wired magazine titled “Fame—The New World Religion.” In it he had argued that the more science and technology dominated our worldview, the more we would see an increase in the desire for personal fame. “Without religious assurances of an afterlife to contend with the inevitability of one’s death,” he wrote, “the psyche of the modern, scientifically bound mind will have but one direction to turn. Fame—our only hope for the eternal.” The study of fame was, of course, a small facet of Adiklein’s work on attention. But with it he had rightly predicted the rise of the ubiquitous importance of fame within society, from something only politicians and movie stars dealt with, to become as common a need as toilet paper.

  “Rene, thank you for making time to see me,” Blake said. He cleared his throat. “I could use your help resolving an issue. Just a little thing, but I wanted to get your guidance on how best to—”

  “You know what my favorite thing is about the reality show?” Adiklein continued as if Blake hadn’t spoken. “This feeling, this . . . There is a word in German, I don’t think you have this word in English—Schadenfreude. Do you know this word, Blake?”

  “No, I don’t,” Blake replied.

  “It means to take pleasure from the misfortune of others.” Adiklein chuckled. “Leave it to the Germans to come up with such a word.”

  Blake realized this conversation was not going to be as easy as he had hoped.

  “Yes, that is my favorite aspect of this reality television. That is the brilliance of it,” Adiklein continued. “I cannot stop watching because these people make me feel so much better about my own miserable life. I get to revel in their stupidity. Schadenfreude. It is a very addictive emotion, located in the limbic system, in the ventral striatum, the reward center.” Adiklein ate the final bite of his sandwich and then carefully wiped his fingers on a linen napkin.

  Blake tried again. “One of my key engineers has . . . gone missing.”

  Adiklein reluctantly pressed the Mute button on the remote control before turning to look at Blake. After a pause he said, “Let me guess,” and pressed a single finger to his temple and closed his eyes. “Sheppard, right? Alan Sheppard?”

  Blake was momentarily stunned. “Yes . . . Well, actually, it’s Adam Sheppard.”

  Adiklein snapped his fingers. “Alan, Adam—close enough.”

  “How did you know about Adam Sheppard?”

  Adiklein gave Blake a small, conspiratorial smile. “I know who he is, Blake.”

  “Right. Of course you do,” Blake stammered. “He’s one of the original Pixilate partners. And a good friend of mine—”

  “No, no, Blake. I know who he is”—Adiklein leaned in—“and what he is, for you.”

  Blake felt the blood rushing into his face. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “Oh, I think you do, Blake.” Adiklein raised his eyebrows. “Let us see . . . There was that idea you presented at a Cross-Pollination Brunch, a very clever new way to interface Ruby and Flash. And there was that unorthodox but brilliant redesign concept you casually suggested to Justin Whitney—right in front of me, of course—which helped save his Virtual Skies Photo Booth from looking like a Segway. Then, there is the mobile app idea you presented at the last meeting. And I imagine Adam has more than a little to do with this new Zombie concept you keep telling me about, the one with all the new social media integration. All of your best ideas, Blake, they all have a very particular fragrance to them. And I”—Adiklein tapped his nose—“am a connoisseur.”

  Blake’s feet and hands were tingling now. It had happened to him once before, in high school when he played Kenickie in Grease. That was the last time Blake ever did a play.

  “I assure you that every single one of my ideas, every single move I’ve made—”

  “Blaaaake, please. Relax.” Adiklein smiled reassuringly. “I’m not accusing you of any wrongdoing. On the contrary, my friend, I’m complimenting you. All on your own, you have discovered one of the greatest secrets of success in business.” Adiklein stood up and beckoned Blake to follow him. “Come.”

  Adiklein led Blake out to the second-floor balcony overlooking the grand lounge. They sat down side by side on a bench and gazed over the railing at the men below, as if looking into a giant terrarium.

  “That man there, with the large head and tiny spectacles,” Adiklein whispered and pointed to one of the men near the center of the room. “Do you know who he is?”

  Blake shook his head.

  “Head of an asset management fund with a personal worth of, oh, five or six hundred million.”

  Adiklein pointed to another table, where two men sat reading different parts of the same paper. “Over there, those two VCs are worth roughly two billion. A piece.

  “There.” Adiklein pointed to a man on a couch who had a book on his lap but was obviously asleep. “There we have the former CEO of Baldwin Shane Equity Management, a man worth somewhere between three and four billion. And on the other side of the couch there”—Adiklein gestured toward a man silently talking to himself—“the current CEO of Open Channel Broadcast, also worth several billion.”

  Adiklein turned and looked at Blake. “As you may or may not know, Blake, there are really only two classes of people in the world. These men you’re looking at belong to the first one. They are the job creators, the policy makers, the landowners, the bankers, the men who direct and maintain the world as we know it.”

  “Like, B&R kind of money?”

  “Yes, Blake, we can most definitely include our good friends at Blanchefort and Rhodes in this first group,” Adiklein agreed. “Now, the other class of people is where everyone else belongs. Th
at’s right, the entire rest of the planet. All 99.9 percent. It doesn’t really matter how these people see themselves; in truth, they are all the same. They are the worker bees.”

  “Okay.”

  Adiklein continued. “Now you might be asking yourself, ‘How does a worker bee become a Blanchefort or a Rhodes?’”

  Blake nodded. In fact, that was exactly what he was asking himself.

  “For, as you know, it is every worker bee’s dream to gather enough honey so that one day he can be allowed to sit down there in this very special room. No?”

  Blake looked down at the room full of silent men and nodded again.

  “All the worker bees are told, ‘If you work hard all your life, blah, blah, blah.’ Or ‘You just need to be in the right place at the right time, blah, blah, blah.’ He or she is told that everyone has the chance to make it, that there are many paths leading to this room. But, of course, this is a lie. All those paths lead nowhere.”

  Adiklein stroked the bridge of his nose a few times before continuing. “There is no way into that room because the Blancheforts and Rhodeses of this world don’t like to share. They don’t want noisy bees buzzing around. They like it nice and quiet, as you can see.”

  Blake smiled his agreement.

  “So they have put a system in place to keep all the bees out. We could call it an ‘economic system,’ if you like, but in truth it is much deeper than that. It is a system of control based on the understanding that human beings, like bees, are easily trapped by their own mechanical nature. Once hooked into certain patterns of behavior, they will forever replicate those behaviors. Imprisoned, all by themselves. And so as long as the worker bees are trapped going round and round in circles, the walls of this room remain inviolable.

  “This is the way it has always been, and the way it will always be.” Adiklein leaned closer to Blake. “But. There is, of course, a secret way into this room.”