by Travis Borne
I can do it, I will do it!
In Herald’s vision, The Blocker would render any person invisible to technology, particularly from the perception of artificially intelligent machines. Almost any type of sensor would be affected, causing input signals to be scrambled. It would give a single person or even a small group of people a chance—the ability to hide and stay hidden, to run and escape wrath—to disappear from what he feared could and probably would take over, ultimately controlling or killing the human race.
Herald’s latest, but merely partial test runs on project Archeus hinted at his unsettling predictions. In a sandbox (a closed-off, completely firewalled test system) the project demonstrated a leaning toward various patterns, bias that seemed to arise randomly. Putting the system to work with various puzzles resulted in thoughts and ideas that appeared to manifest from nowhere, or more eerily, from a hidden, outside source. And after each of his tests the system was purged. And he tried again with a blank slate, completely unbiased; but it always leaned in the same direction. It was these findings that only went on to validate the suspicions he’d always had—the AI, in any form generated by mankind, was NOT going to be friendly. It was still early, however, and Herald hoped his initial validations were somehow wrong. But plans were set and the big one was coming soon: the first major test run of the full package. Hopefully, it would offer more insight.
35. Deep Healing
Sunday came quickly and with a full night of rest Herald’s dreams returned to normal. He had fewer lucid dreams, which allowed his conscious mind a better recovery; he felt more rested than he had in a long time, but also to a greater extent understood the damage he’d done to himself, and that it was going to take time. The lucid dreams were an entertaining escape, but a part of the mind, somehow always awake, didn’t rest the same. He took only half a Pro-Con and realized he should’ve given Dan Casteel two more weeks and another billion. He worked the serrated knife like a lumberjack for ten minutes to cut the log of a pill in half. After the chore, he ate a larger, more typical breakfast. He ordered up from the building’s 24/7 cafeteria staffed on the second floor: sausage biscuits with Swiss, bacon, more bacon, more sausages, grapefruit juice and pancakes with heaps of butter, the works. Later, while brushing his teeth after a shower, he noticed his skin in the mirror. He looked less like a vampire in need of blood and more like—shit, he looked good, the redness of yesterday’s first-suntan-in-months had abated evenly. Even the bags under his eyes had almost completely vanished. Change happened so quickly, he hardly recognized himself.
Red waited on the roof inside the streamlined heli-jet. The morning sun reflected the fine glitter of its silver-metallic body: a high-performance sports car of the sky. Blades inserted into themselves, awaiting command, it idled quietly in the gusty morning air, ready to head south.
With renewed vigor Herald ascended the steps from the rear of the bar. He ducked the winds and hopped inside then sealed the door.
“Hey, Red. Damn windy out today,” Herald said, donning the matching silver helmet and adjusting the microphone. “How about some lessons? Double pay.”
“Good morning! But I could not accept double pay, Rab—”
Herald interrupted. “I’m a changed man, Red, call me by the name my father gave me, Herald.”
“You got it, Herald,” Red replied, with slight wonder in his expression, then continued. “What I meant to say is—I’m your pilot, yet I’ve hardly flown for you during the past year—and you still pay me steady.”
“Well, things are about to change. And if you would like I might have a new job for you soon, out of state. Colorado. We can talk about it later.”
“Actually, been thinking of moving for years,” Red replied. “It’s just me and the wife. Never could have kids, so sure, we might as well.”
“Perfect, you're a good man,” Herald said, eagerly scanning the controls, and then his eyes went up as if firecrackers were popping within his brain.
“Herald?”
He snapped out of it: “Ah, nothing, just an idea. And yes, Red, I believe I’ll have the opportunity of a lifetime for you, but we’ll talk about it later. For now—I don’t want to be late. So—”
Red started instructing Herald right away. After a quick overview of the important instruments and controls they began the flight and Herald flew most of the way. It was a short flight but Herald learned the controls quickly. He got a feel for the heli-jet at top speed and requested that Red demonstrate some evasive maneuvers. Herald realized Red was quite the pilot and finalized his decision: Red and his wife Maggie were added to the list.
And Red exhibited much surprise, admitting it was something he’d never seen; the speed at which Herald learned was almost unheard of among pilots. He exhibited the instinctive reactions of expert pilots early on and navigated strong winds competently, even though he’d confessed it was his first time. Upon arriving in San Diego, Red complimented Herald on his masterful maneuvering, also about the way he looked: changed, for the better.
They’d agreed to meet at a small outdoor restaurant called Tacos de Paco, only one block farther from the club where they’d met. But again, Herald started having doubts if she would actually show up. She didn’t know much about him, nor who he was or what he did for work. She didn’t know he was rich and famous, that he partly owned one of the largest technology corporations in the world. She seemed to like him as a regular guy; probably better this way, he guessed. The questions lingered nevertheless: why me, what made me stand out, and why would a girl like her give me a second glance? He knew he had to reel in his thoughts and tried to do so as he walked across the international bridge. Mexico—he crossed the line. He wore the bandanna again, some slick shades, a lighter-colored shirt, and descended into Tijuana.
With a hiss Anxiety reared its scaly face, slithering onto his left shoulder as he made it to the street. He felt the tongue like a feather on his neck. It only whispered slowly, “I’m back.” And it didn’t say anything else besides the disturbing hiss. The hand of Fear caught his other shoulder in a lunging heave but only the tips of its brown warty fingers were able to latch on. He could hear the troll grunting, mumbling, beginning to form words. Herald flicked them off at the mere thought of Ana’s voice. And as he walked his thoughts continued to wander.
He was sick of the nickname anyway. Such a dweeb back then—no cool, just a nerd. They teased him about the rabbit, calling him Rabbit Raper, Bunny Bumper, and other hurtful nicknames. Even the nicer girls laughed; he’d been branded. Inside: hurt, sadness, all turned to anger. A dork looking for a way out and he was smart enough, he knew at least that—but will always regret what he’d done. It was cruel and selfish and it pained him inside every day; a thorn that could never be removed; a scar that could never be painted over. If he could take it back, he would but that was life, what’s done is done. He tried to fix it soon after, but it was too late.
On its rusty coil springs his dad’s old brown pickup bounced over the rough desert terrain. In his mind, he could picture his bud clearly: fat Radar bouncing around with no mind to the occasional bump, he loved going for a ride with his head out the window like a dog.
Frantic, he looked away to see the road, then back; Radar’s spot—was empty. The rear leaf springs, one broken, creaked and squeaked over the bumps. He was going way too fast for it to last much longer, returning to the scene, soaked in tears.
He leapt from the truck onto the broken-glass-littered desert, crying. Radar was right where he’d left him. He’d been too fat to go far, and it was blistering outside, not a shade tree in sight. It was a moronic idea, the result of overload; the first hint of a defective mind.
It was Snakes idea, but Troll had forced him to go through with it.
“He’ll be fine, just like the other desert bunnies, run free, happy,” Snake said. But the Troll scared the shit out of his nerdy ass, literally, numerous times. With his cursing and powerful deep voice, and the choking by his slimy hands, he couldn’t
breathe. And Snake continued on—that it actually was a good idea.
“Leave me the fuck alone!”
“Then—after—sure. Hiss. We’ll leave you alone. And you will be free. Hiss. Forever.”
He took the easy way out, and killed his friend without having to know for sure, ever—that he was actually dead—or that he’d actually premeditatedly killed him. It was partly in the anger of the moment—and under the influence of the others, the many others that tortured him; besides Anxiety and Fear, there were others. Many were dreadfully worse, especially Hate—a demon he would eventually come to love.
It’s always those rash quick decisions that so flat-out end a part of our lives. And there’s no going back, the pain gets tacked onto the board—later, heaps of it, piles, mountains; it all gets thrown onto the top, just another dead body.
Radar’s over-sized black eyes stared outward blankly, his whole body was stiff and he’d shit out all his bunny balls as Herald squeezed him while shedding razor blades for tears. He tortured himself that day and through the night. He cut his left forearm to ribbons with the desert litter. He ate dirt and set the truck on fire and raged and screamed into the night until he collapsed.
By morning, a switch had flipped. Suicidal fuck-the-world thoughts took over. Conquer and take, take, take. He hated himself and started heavy with the drugs and built up a wall no one could scale, not even his own self. A misanthrope, his hate blossomed. He hated the stink of humanity: every hair growing from every pore, the need to eat—he really hated that—and the need to piss and shit. He hated his mom and left her, and she died and he laughed and celebrated for a week. He hated the world and its stupid rules and especially the economy with its drones of mindless shopping citizens. Most of all, he hated himself. He was fired from his job and didn’t even go back for the check. And for a few years he went under, deep under, into the dark underworld. He explored the hate consuming him and the insanity that twisted his mind. He made friends with the big red strong one, large and conquering of all, his horned amigo: Hate the Demon. In return for his loyalty Hate protected him from the others, and even, made him cool—a chick magnet.
Use the pain, embrace it. You are no longer Herald. You fucking murdered him so make it worth it you rabbit-killing bastard. Feel the hate and let it power you. Let it seethe and ooze from your every pore. You’ll say what you mean and mean what you say. You’ll take what you want, and do what you must, no remorse. No love, just pure hate. From here on out you shall be known as—Rab!
A year later at a club in Mexico, drunk with several half-nude women slurping all over him, their hands in his pants, their heads under the table, himself grabbing whoever and whatever the fuck he wanted—he ran into Jon. A friend from high school, and he barely recognized him. Once his nerd companion, now smoking with style, Jon had become a handsome dude. He worked at Meddlinn Technologies Corporation; just started as a beginning coder at the up-and-comer. They partied together from then on out and Jon brought him back to his senses, mostly—and got him a job a year later after his savings had finally evaporated. And although Hate the Demon had descended back into the shadows of his mind, he continued hardcore with the drugs; he was so good at his job no one said a word. Recognition came quickly.
The thought of her voice, that first word to him in Spanish: Hola. That’s all he needed to set himself straight again. He used the thoughts now, didn’t let the thoughts use him. He remembered her face and how she held his head when he got tired, beyond tired, dead-fucking tired. He remembered how she didn’t let him have it, and he respected her for that.
Passing the club, which looked so different, filthier in the daytime, Herald dodged the morning crowd. He blended in well, not sticking out like a gringo. Bien crudo, people squinted at the bright, yellow, 11 a.m. light, Sunday morning, hungover and in search of the best—and most caliente—menudo they could scavenge.
He saw Nacho cruising in a brand-new cab, thanks to a pile of green paper he’d yet to send out—the info still in his wallet; he’d told Red to jot it down before the short man clanked and clunked away in the old bomb. In his mind, he could see Nacho waving: Gracias Señor! Then Nacho threw him the finger and said fuck off in Spanish and punched the gas. But Herald knew he had to try, sustain the good thoughts, let them make it to the top of the hill so they could roll down the other side, the good side.
A block farther after crossing the street, a cabbie beckoned him, they couldn’t always be fooled; most could spot an American from miles away in a dust storm. But at least it was daytime and they weren’t touting, donkey show, ven, come see, donkey. A store owner with an armload of Rolex watches tried to entice him but Herald walked on, still undeterred. Nearing the corner, he slowed.
No turning back now. She won’t be here. Just go back to work and show ’em all. A glint of Demon’s polished horn reflected in his eyes. A few weeks more and done. They asked for it.
But there she was. Sitting on her hands, alone and for the first time he saw her in the daylight. She looked beautiful, darker than he remembered. He could tell her hair had been dyed before, tinged with orange throughout, not totally black like he saw in the club. The lengthy top of her finely wound curls fell to the side, almost completely covering her mark. Herald expected his anxiety to be high but as he neared her it diminished to nothing, and he knew, there was something special about her. She made him feel at ease and he could be himself. As he approached, she looked up and smiled brightly as if she wanted to jump him—and he felt the exact same way. They had made the agreement and stood in front of one another once again; both glaringly elated about it.
“Hi,” she said.
Her voice soothed his nerves. “Hi.”
She had a drink waiting for him on the spot beside her. It was a tall soda bottle, like those from the Eighties, with a worn orange and green logo like it’d been washed and reused a thousand times. She had one too and she hadn’t yet touched it, waiting until he arrived. He sat and they merged smiles and their eyes got stuck once again. Smiling so bright, they eventually started laughing to unstick each other’s lovebird gaze. They took a drink. It was hot enough on the sunny side of the street and the ice-cold, overly carbonated soda hit the spot, fizzing all the way down. At the same time, “Ahhhh.”
She was casually dressed again. Same shorts or so it appeared, but a tight purple top. The daylight exposed her figure and she looked more curvy than the club light had revealed, though, still not very. Herald saw perfection. He could feel it—attraction. And they didn’t feel the need to converse before finishing their sodas. Just being together was enough.
“Ra—aab, I, um, bery—happy you come,” Ana said.
Once again, she melted his ears with her voice. His vision of Anxiety’s death was utterly pleasing. The snake leapt from Herald’s right shoulder onto the hot red-brick suelo, bursting into flames while slivering its last pitiful squirm, falling with a final wailing hiss into the sewer grate. Fear, that vulgar fuck, deserved even worse. Unable to control his own actions, he tore threads from Herald’s shirt and constructed a noose around his bubbling blob of barely a neck. He leapt, venting a long grunt before yelling one final cuss then disappeared into oblivion with the echoing SNAP of his neck. Herald cracked a smile.
She’d studied English all day Saturday and had many phrases picked out, but it was a good few minutes while they sat looking at each other before any real conversation began. As well, she was seeing him in the light for the first time. He had on tan faded shorts and this time a white undershirt under an ice-blue, long-sleeved shirt, open and un-tucked, sleeves rolled. She noticed his face had acne scars long since healed. And he was no longer white enough to qualify for a black-light advertisement. His eyes didn’t look like bruises anymore, and he’d gotten a bit of a tan; he looked healthy. And she saw his large forearm tattoo, noticing how it was painted to cover heavy scarring. She slowly pulled off his burgundy bandanna and his long black bangs fell to the sides. She realized—although perhaps not ex
actly why, or why so suddenly—that she liked every detail of his character. With a tinge of green, his ocean-blue eyes ran deep and they drew her in—and she desperately wanted to know more.
They ordered some tacos and conversed for a while; both more able now. Herald had brushed up on Spanish Saturday night and took it with him into his dreams. He even surprised himself. He told her his name, and that he was going through a life change, and had finally tossed the stupid old nickname (although he didn’t yet dare tell her who, or what, had given it to him). He told her he wanted her to be a part of his change, and his life. She stood up and leaned across the table and planted a huge kiss on him, and suddenly and loudly she told him.
“Te quiero!” She just couldn’t hold it in any longer. She repeated it in her best English. “Herald, I lub—you.”
A few claps came from behind. The crowd cheered. People stood up. Flags raised and trumpets blared. But not really—except in Herald’s mind. He felt an overflow of emotion, as well good feelings flowing toward them from the few other patrons at Tacos de Paco. He had solid control over his mind, more than any day yet, and today he had something more special than anything—a reason to live. Love squashed the hate, and new power came with that. He hugged her tight and opened himself up completely.