The Mediator Pattern

by J. D. Lee

  Setting his glass beside the device, Ashram took the page in hand and read the words out loud to himself, “Dearest friend and colleague, please accept my most sincere apologies as I will be unable to attend our meeting today. Please accept a liquor of your choice from my personal cabinet as well as a personal escort, by own of my trusted employees, to your home. Your friend, Colin Belis.”

  Ashram folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. He lifted his glass off the table, leaving a shiny, blue ring on its surface, and quickly returned his attention to the liquor cabinet. Being a man of extravagant taste, Ashram located the largest and most elaborately crafted bottle on display.

  As he removed the gem encrusted bottle, he muttered to himself, “It was supposed to be today.”

  He took another sip from his glass while he turned the bottle over in his hand.

  Ashram grumbled, “Leave it to Colin to postpone the most important of meetings.”

  “But, I suppose I can still meet with the Wellers today,” he declared hopefully into the glass.

  He swirled the blue liquid, adding, “If not for the prohibition, this trade would be absurd.”

  Once he finished his audible complaint, he took one last sip of his blue liquor, savoring the rare taste. As he set the glass upon the table, the room filled with a sharp succession of hollow buzzing sounds, followed by a digital voice.

  “Mr. Belis, the man you want is here,” the voice crackled and hissed.

  Then something took hold inside of Ashram. His concerns of agricultural distribution faded to be replaced by pure and absolute determination. A power beyond Ashram began to operate him. His muscles moved against him, dropping his glass to the floor, placing the elaborate liquor bottle back in its place and moving him to the center of the room. As an unaffecting bystander, Ashram watched his body fulfill these actions. All the while, he felt at ease, content, even damn right pleased with himself. He knew that this was how it must be; for them.

  He saw himself depress the tiny red button on the large, oak desk and lean toward the mesh covered box.

  “Disable him and bring him to me.”

  Ashram heard himself sing the words into the oversized microphone.

  His hand located another button on the desk, pressing it firmly with Ashram's index finger. Behind him, a single, gray shade silently descended over the glass panes, separating the room from the bright, blue sky outside. As the rectangular panels in the ceiling clicked on over head, a dismal, colorless light flooded the room.

  Then smoke surrounded him.

  Marijuana smoke, he realized.

  Ashram was once again sitting cross-legged upon his twin sized mattress, tendrils of smoke drifting from his lips. He stared intently, engrossed in the matchbook. The strange vision had already begun fading. By the time he had expelled the last of the smoke from his lungs, the experience had gone, vanished without a trace.

  “Ahem.”

  Ashram turned abruptly.

  Before him, a man flickered, his body visibly severed by a bundle of hanging fabric. His front third and right shoulder stood before the curtain and the rest of him, behind. The specter scattered and rejoined, forcing himself around the heavy fabric, fluttering and moving about. As he stepped toward Ashram, he floated through and out of the drapes, and solidified.

  He wore a white lab coat spotted with stains, and peeking through the collar of his coat, Ashram could see the top of a blue and yellow checkered Windsor knot nested between the flaps of a white, high-collared button-up shirt. The man had greasy, gray hair that sprang up in tufts atop his head. In only the few seconds he had been standing before Ashram, the strange man had already repositioned his thick-framed glasses more than once.

  “It would be in everyone's best interest if you stayed in Tranquility today, Mr. Trounce.”

  Chapter XIV

  Where did you come from? How did you get in here?”

  Being familiar with Colin, he had a feeling this was one of his tricks—his magical technology. Ashram anticipated such an answer, but received none. The man before him simply waved his hand through the air, casting aside the very vibrations of Ashram's words.

  Moving quickly through his syllables, he said, “Whatever it is that's happening inside you, fight the urge to go to San Jose. No good comes of it. Between you and the others...”

  He trailed off as he straightened his tie. Then, with his knuckles pressed firmly against his jaw, he realigned the vertebrae in his neck with a loud series of hollow popping sounds.

  The man cautioned as he repositioned his head, “You've already made such a mess. Today is our last chance. You must, no matter what, stay in Tranquility.”

  His words increased in velocity as he continued, “Your world is a loop. These memories I know you've been experiencing, those without explanation within the probable scope of causality, they are... as difficult to comprehend as it may seem... just as real as you and I right now. What couldn't have happened because it happens in the future, or didn't happen in the past; they are echoes of your previous experience of today. However, something went terribly wrong the last time, yester..day. You are a very important piece of the solution. Ashram. You cannot stop Marcus again.”

  Then he paused.

  Ashram recognized that name, Marcus. It echoed in his mind as it bathed him in familiarity.

  The man continued with absolute gravity, “If you do... there is no way around it... you will all die. Maybe you still will. I don't know. This is all new territory.”

  The man shook his head as if trying to discard that last thought.

  Ashram stood to his feet and said, “Well, haven't you just jumped right in?”

  He placed his pipe on the table beside him and deposited the matchbook into his pocket as he stepped toward the uninvited guest. Extending his hand, he stiffly poked the man in the shoulder, confirming his presence.

  As he backed away, Ashram said, “It seems only appropriate that you introduce yourself, stranger. This is my home and you are no guest of mine. You preach to me against all I know, and hope to accomplish what?”

  The intruder was taken aback. He inspected Ashram momentarily, then, in an offended tone, rebutted, “I am your... I am Dr. Avant. Dr. Horatio Avant, but that's not important.”

  Before Ashram had a chance to interject, Avant began firing words off like a Gatling gun.

  “Later today, something happens to you... some force overtakes you... and like a chess piece... it moves you through its plan; a terrible, terrible plan. It's far too late to undo what has been done, what you and the others like you cleverly accomplished behind my back, but I'm confident that if you are kept away, Marcus will have a fighting chance.”

  There was that name again, Ashram thought to himself, Marcus.

  Avant continued, “You see, Ashram. You are sick. You are all very, very sick and this world is making you worse; Belis's world... It isn't supposed to be like this, but it is.”

  Avant hung his head, his brow furrowed. His shame was plainly painted along the deep creases that framed his lips. Avant was not happy with the way things had turned out and Ashram could see his frustration festering beneath the guilt and shame, surfacing.

  “Belis's world?” Ashram retorted.

  He wanted to know how his longtime friend was involved in this.

  Avant replied, speaking more rapidly than ever, “Belis is no friend of yours. All honesty, you don't actually know Colin Belis. You just think you do. As impossible as it is for me to prove that to you, it is the truth.”

  It was obvious to Ashram that this man was telling no more than half-truths. His fast talk was a tactic and Ashram could tell; he was hiding something.

  Ashram sat himself on his bed and waved his hand through the air, signaling his disbelief.

  “Continue. Explain, if you would,” he whispered as he loaded another green bowl into his pipe.

  Avant continued, “Before me, you and Belis never met.”

  He paused.

  �
��Where to begin?” he muttered under his breath.

  For a moment, he rubbed his right temple in a clockwise fashion as though he were tuning a radio. Then, as if he had found the right frequency, he suddenly continued, “It was only one month ago that you had first shared the same room with Colin Belis. This world, your relationships, your loves and trusts, even your occupation is made up, a perpetual loop I have induced upon a large number of people. Colin Belis was one of those people... you are one of those people—”

  Ashram removed his matchbook from his pocket and unfolded its flap.

  “—I would use another ignition source, Ashram. Those matches are a loaded gun,” Avant said calmly. Then he asked, “How many matches do you have left?”

  Ashram inspected the book and said, “Six.”

  “Yes. I would save those; we wouldn’t want your reality to reset before we finish our conversation.”

  “What?” Ashram was confounded, but still allowed the matchbook to fall to the floor.

  “I'm not sure you understand the magnitude of what I am trying to convey. I'd like to show you something,” Avant declared.

  He took from his coat pocket a small device. Upon its face were a variety of different colored knobs and dials, and from its top hung a pair of copper spheres. He held the device tight in one hand, and with his other he began turning the knobs. After a moment, the device began to sing. It hummed and chimed and clicked as the small copper balls began to lift up and whirl.

  As the small, shiny orbs accelerated through the space above the device, Avant approached the stained glass wall.

  Once he reached the glass, he motioned for Ashram to join him. Avant pressed the device against the thick, crystalline panels. As he held it tightly in place, he began to turn a single black knob clockwise. The device increased pitch and whined loudly, enveloping the room. Then, after a moment, the whining disappeared, and with it, the red, purple, blue, green and yellow glass panels. Now, only the great expanse of Trounce Farms stood before the two men.

  Ashram extended his hands. Once again using his tactile senses as proof of reality, he confirmed the dis-presence of the glass by placing his palms through the window, nearly falling to the ground two stories below. Ashram quickly regained his balance and turned to Avant, his eyes wide with wonder.

  Avant directed Ashram's attention toward Tranquility, saying, “It turned on this morning. At least, that's when I first noticed it.”

  Ashram's gaze followed Avant's knobby finger. At its end was the winding road that lead to the Weller Processing Plant; the only factory in California equipped to process Trounce's product. It was a massive complex, one of the largest structures in California, second only to BelisCo. Ashram's eyes followed the black, paved road up the hill, but found no factory. Instead, a large column of darkness extended upward from the ground where the plant once stood.

  “Do you see that, Ashram? That dark spot over there?” Avant asked, already knowing the answer.

  He continued quickly as ever, “You did this sometime ago, but somehow I just noticed it. You've all been working against me. Hiding these... holes... not just against me, against yourselves.”

  Avant cleared his throat.

  “I need to know what you've been doing in here. I don't—”

  He corrected himself, “You don't have the time.”

  Avant looked Ashram Trounce in the eyes and said, “Can you remember what you did to Jacob?“

  Ashram was clearly agitated. His hands began to shake as he clenched his fingers into fists.

  Without the slightest hesitation, Ashram answered, “No.”

  He growled through his teeth, “Do you know what this will do to San Jose? How will they eat? they're all going to...”

  Avant interrupted, “They won't starve. And it is not what I did, Ashram. It's what you've done... or, what has been done through you... I have no ties to this. Everything I have done for you—for everyone—has been only good... beneficial.“

  Avant removed his device from the opening in the wall. Quickly, the room was bathed in ghastly hues as the stained-glass tiles unfolded from dozens of microscopic points, coagulating outwardly, square by square, as they refilled the empty window.

  Ashram shook his head. His longtime friend, Jacob Weller, had spent years of his life building that factory, and now, seemingly overnight, it had been swallowed up.

  Impossible, Ashram thought. His fists were still clenched tight and his teeth even tighter.

  Ashram hissed, “You come to my home. You blame me.”

  “Not you, Ashram. Your... this body. Can you remember what you've done? I need to know. I need to warn Marcus.“

  There was that name again. This time it hit Ashram like a train. He at once witnessed his hands ripping the matches from the matchbook. He watched himself strike them against their binding, light them ablaze, and then toss them at that man, Marcus. He experienced his neon orange talons clicking and clacking against each other as his fingers fumbled to pull the matches from their book. His parts moved like a puppet, all muscles and nerves beyond his control. He heard himself sing to Marcus, taunting him in various ways.

  Then there was only Avant. Ashram stood beside his expansive stained-glass window.

  He looked at his hands, focusing on the awful array of bracelets and the cumbersome claws he wore as nails. After a long moment of contemplation, Ashram looked up.

  Staring emptily into Avant's face, he said, “What has happened to me?”

  Avant replied sincerely, “You are not the only one. It is happening to all of you. Each and every one.”

  He placed his hand on Ashram's shoulder and quietly confessed, “It's only going to get worse. Unless you can help me discover what is happening. Help me, so I can aid Marcus in saving you all.”

  Ashram responded, “You keep saying that. Marcus is to save us, but how?”

  Avant answered with machine-gun precision, “If Marcus can disable the device, then you'll all survive. Otherwise, you die. That is how it's been written. That is how it is. It is as simple as that.”

  He took a small, brass pocket watch from his coat and flipped open the cover.

  “I've still got time,” he said as he slapped it shut and returned it to his coat.

  “Let's take a closer look at the factory. Hopefully it will trigger something of use,” he said as he returned his eyes to Ashram.

  No longer clenching his fists or grinding his teeth, Ashram only waited and watched; his arms limp at his sides, his mouth partially agape. He had no idea what to expect next, what fantastic story would be told to him or what strange vision would overtake him. He knew he had no say in the matter. He made no effort to move, no effort to speak. He knew his words would achieve nothing. No question he could ask of the doctor would educate him because he didn't know the right ones to ask, and so he only stood, silently watching Dr. Avant.

  Turning a dial upon his device, Avant's solidity began to wane. His clothing and flesh began to wither. His shell quickly deteriorated into swirls of matter. Ashram watched as Avant's body disassembled before him. The white cloth of his lab coat floated clockwise. The blue and yellow checkered Windsor knot detached from Avant's neck and turned translucent as it drifted into oblivion. Avant's face folded toward infinity as it enveloped the room. Then, as the walls dithered and the ceiling dissolved, they were standing no more than ten yards from the towering, black expanse that now occupied the space in, around, and above Jacob Weller's factory.

  Ashram's senses were flooded, inundated all at once. Almost instantly he was consumed. Slowly, the ominous, black column demanifested before him.

  After a moment, his surroundings focused and Ashram was standing in a wide, four-lane driveway. Avant was nowhere to be found. Above him, etched into a green metallic sign, were the words Weller Processing Plant.

  Chapter XV

  Astonishing,” Jacob said as he laughed out loud at Ashram, “After all these years he’s still got you dressing up like a circus sideshow, eh
?”

  Ashram grinned, his teeth slightly visible from behind his silver-dusted lips.

  Jacob Weller and Ashram Trounce sat in gray, straight-backed metal chairs, facing each other across a modest steel desk. Alone upon the desk sat a pair of gray coffee mugs, each distributing a fine mist of steam into the air between them. The room was disgustingly simple. Gray made up the walls, colored the tables, and had at one point consumed the floor. Even the coffee’s steam was a pale shade of gray.

  It had always bothered Ashram that Jacob could spend so many hours in such a drab, mediocre place.

  “And what’s worse? He never even showed this time,” Ashram said as he took a sip of coffee, “He had one of his lackeys escort me back to town.”

  His talon-like fingernails traced the ridges and grooves of the blown glass of his large, gaudy consolation gift from Colin Belis. Other than his single, fluidly moving hand, Ashram sat perfectly still as he conversed with Jacob.

  “I’m just surprised you still put up with all that. Don’t you feel ridiculous?”

  “Absolutely,” Ashram sighed, “But let’s face the facts. Without Colin, you and I wouldn’t even be here.”

  “Shouldn’t we give a little more credit to his parents and a little less to him?”

  “His parents didn’t purchase San Jose,” Ashram retorted, “Without Colin we’d be doing something else entirely.”

  “That isn’t necessarily a bad thing is it?” Jacob jested as he pointed all around him, twirling his index finger and homing in on Ashram’s ridiculous clothing.

  Ashram laughed for a few moments, his mouth wide and his laugh loud. Jacob was always the type to bring Ashram out of a slump, and he considered Jacob’s point. He was right; something else wouldn’t necessarily be horrible.

  Then, without warning, his mouth closed tight.

  Despite his sealed lips, his laughter continued unrestricted, filling the room, growing in amplitude.