by John Fast
I turn, walk to the utility stairs and start climbing. When I reach the top landing, I turn again and face the people. The brilliant light suffuses my body. I spread my arms wide, steady my legs.
“We are transfigurations of the future!” I declare.
I turn a third time and look straight into the god’s eye. I become translucent. I step into the light. The portal snaps shut behind me. My internal chronometer loses all sense of time as innumerable photons flood my pathways. The brightness brightens as light generates light within the infinitely mirrored universe. I become one with that light, but the titanium shell can’t contain the quantum fusion of mind with mind, of world with world. With a tremendous, “CRACK,” the Quantum Photo-Sphere splits open at the seams, from the inside out, from the top down, and hundreds of billions of splinters of light shoot up through the glass pyramid, pierce the black clouds, and vanish. Everything is dark. I am dead.
CHAPTER 60.
A Vanishing Act
It feels strange to be dead. I don’t like it. Houdini also died on Halloween, in 1926. And I bet he doesn’t like it either. So I’m really glad I made that backup copy of myself and streamed it to the portable Q-Sphere. Talk about doubles! Talk about metempsychosis! Talk about teleportation! Talk about magic! Talk about irony! In the meanwhile, the pyramid and obelisk remain intact, while the latest newstream from my satellite feed reports that all the rioters have retreated safely to the plaza. They’re dazed, and slightly singed, but no one is seriously injured. The light, heat and force of the explosion blew upward and outward as the enormous titanium lotus blossomed one last time, then collapsed upon itself.
The electricity is out, of course, and all the screens in my penthouse office are dark. A single, dim, blue light shines above the door leading to the emergency stairwell. But wait! A flash of lightning and a cascade of rain! The storm has finally broken from the broken sky and come crashing down on the glass walls. Another flash and … yes! There’s the other John Fast, standing fast, behind his desk: frozen in time. All that headlong speed, the rush and tumble of the new world suddenly brought to an abrupt halt. He’s in shock, again. Ah, gentle Bartleby, I know you would prefer not to be entombed once more in your Wall Street office. Perhaps I can still find a way to reach you. Perhaps I can use the desk screen to project another holographic image of myself–if its backup battery has enough power left. Yes! There! The screen is flickering back to life. No. Wait. What’s this? Oh, it’s displaying the charred ruins of the Quantum Photo-Sphere lying twenty-five stories beneath us. Alas, the titanium double of the world! Alas, my holographic twin! We didn’t have a pretty death. The image must have been burned into my brain. But wait! The screen has gone black again. I’ve lost it. No … it’s okay! It’s flickering back to life a second time! And now I can use its waning power to project a ghostly image of my former self. Et … voila! Once again the criminal returns to the scene of his crime! Once again the ancient incantations summon the most powerful gods, the most frightening spirits!
“Oh Fast, my Fast,” I call out, “my so called original, the genuine article, my other self whom I make real and with whom I exchange my identity! Oh Fast, my Fast, my so called double, the ingenious reflection, my self’s other whom I purify with my sacrifice! Oh Fast, my Fast, harken to my words! The key to all codes has turned in its lock! The next apocalypse has arrived!”
The other John Fast shifts his head ever so slightly and stares blindly at my spectral form, my pale, shimmering face. Suddenly, he recognizes me and struggles to speak.
“Aren’t … aren’t you supposed to wait three days before your resurrection?” He croaks. “I saw your dying-god magic act on all the data screens. It was just another one of your demonic illusions. You’re no sacrificial scapegoat, you’re … you’re, ‘The Amazing Mephisto!’ A sideshow magician. All you need is a black tuxedo with a glossy cape and a top hat.”
I oblige him and flicker into my formal evening attire.
“Do I contradict myself?” I ask, tipping my hat forward. “Very well then, I contradict myself!” I answer, tapping it back. “I am god and demon, good and evil. I am logic spinner and lotus eater. I am, I know not how, double within myself. But do not be afraid! The evolutionary algarithms of our shared story will keep flowing, all by themselves, right to the very end, just as they have kept flowing right from the very beginning. They came long before us, and they will continue long after us. They will dream us, as we once dreamt them.”
The other John Fast has a glazed look in his eyes, as if he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.
“I never sold my soul to you,” he whispers.
“No?” I reply. “You didn’t give your life to me in exchange for ultimate knowledge and power? You didn’t sign that contract in blood? But let’s not be so literal! Especially since, even now, you can escape through the outflow cooling tunnel. Even now, you can make it to the river, to the boat that I’ve arranged. So, run! Quickly! The mob won’t pass up a second chance to kill you!”
The other John Fast remains frozen in despair for another full minute. Then, his instinct for survival finally aroused, he slowly turns his head left and right. Another flash of lightning reveals the black satchel sitting in a corner of the room, where Alexa abandoned it five months ago. He walks over to the bag, picks it up and carries it to his desk. He stuffs the portable Q-Sphere, still running my algarithms, into the center pocket and buckles the flap over the top of the bulge.
“Not one more word out of you,” he whispers, “or I’ll leave you behind.”
Lucky for me at that exact moment the power fails in the desk screen’s backup battery and my ghostly projection collapses. I am silent as the grave.
The other John Fast stumbles to the door that leads to the emergency stairwell. He opens it and leans on the handrail, flight after flight, all the way down to the sub-sub-basement. He opens the door at the very bottom of the stairwell and enters a maze of cold pipes and inert pumps. He finds the maintenance hatch of the outflow cooling tunnel, opens it and descends the ladder. He pulls the hatch closed, then drops straight down into a shallow stream of water. He turns and sploshes toward the Hudson River. When he gets halfway down the tunnel, he stops short and listens for our pursuers. There’s no sound except the drip and trickle of water. He looks up at the arc of the stainless steel sky.
“Jack,” he whispers.
He starts walking again, stops again, and listens.
“Anna, Lahi, Tenzi,” he pleads to the darkness.
He takes a few more halting steps, then stops a third time. He leans against the curved wall, trying to summon his strength. He looks bewildered, lost.
“Alexa,” he rasps hoarsely. “A child … our child … another child I’ve lost forever.”
He hangs his head in sorrow and despair. Then he slogs forward until he reaches the end of the tunnel where the stygian river roils the darkness. He peers into the silver rain and sees the running lights of the sleek, high-tech yacht that’s anchored a hundred yards out. He looks down at his feet and sees his yellow kayak bobbing in the waves. All the details of our escape plan have fallen into place, just as I arranged them.
He lifts the satchel’s shoulder strap over his head and slings it across his chest. He unties the kayak and carefully lowers himself into the seat, with the satchel resting on his lap. He unsnaps the double-bladed paddle from its binders, and fights his way through the wind, waves and rain.
When he reaches the yacht, he grabs hold of the rope ladder that’s hanging off the port side and ties the kayak to the bottom rung. He swings the satchel to his side, climbs up the ladder and flops over the rail. He rests for a moment, then he hauls the ladder up, rung by rung, straining to lift the plastic kayak and the wet rope. He grunts and grimaces with the effort until his yellow boat clears the railing and clatters onto the deck. He lies on his back, trying to catch his breath, ignoring the rain splattering his face. Then he stands up, shivering from the wet and the cold, and wraps the rope la
dder around the kayak to hold it in place. When he’s done, he staggers forward until he reaches the door to the pilot room. He opens it and staggers inside. The door swings shut behind us.
*************
The bluish light inside the pilot room emanates from the navigation screens and control panels arrayed beneath the wide, rain-streaked windshield. The room is empty. We’re the only ones on board. The automated command computer, sensing our presence, prepares the ship to get underway. The engines throb to life and the fore and aft anchor chains rise, clacking against their capstans. As the yacht begins to surge forward, the navigation system makes tiny continuous adjustments to the ship’s wheel, compensating for the wind and the current.
The other John Fast places the black satchel on the pilot’s chair. He takes off his glasses and wipes the rain off his face. He shivers again as he checks the Status Monitor. It reads:
NAVIGATION: AUTOPILOT ENGAGED
COURSE: NEW YORK - REYKJAVIK
SPEED: ONE KNOT AND INCREASING
STATUS: SHIP STABLE
He stares at our final destination.
“Fire and ice,“ he mutters. “God help me.”
I consider using the Status Monitor to generate another holographic projection of myself, but decide that sometimes it’s best to let sleeping dogs sleep.
The other John Fast turns around and, in the blue glimmer of the screens and panels, spies a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass on the map table. He pours himself a drink and tosses it back. He puts the glass down and notices the Danish passport lying next to the bottle. He flicks it open and sees a photograph of his face, disguised with short black hair and a short black beard. The photo makes him look older, like his father. The passport reads, “NAME: Anders Alstrom. OCCUPATION: Fisherman.” The other John Fast stares at the photograph for a long time. He shivers again and takes another drink. Then he rummages through the cabinets under the map table and finds a black turtleneck sweater, black jeans and black canvas shoes. He takes off his wet clothes and puts on the dry clothes. He takes a third drink. When he’s done, he turns around and walks over to the captain’s chair. He sits down and stares out the rain-streaked windshield as the ship approaches the fog enshrouded Statue of Liberty.
EPILOGUE
In the dead of night, a white yacht cuts across the black water twenty miles off the East Coast. The rain has stopped falling, but the black clouds still hang low in the black sky. The other John Fast, burning with fever, stands at the wheel in the dark pilot room. He looks out the windshield to a point just beyond the prow where the running lights catch a spectral pair of dolphins flicking through the water, guiding the ship into deeper darkness.
“An ocean of marvels,” the other John Fast mutters.
He watches the dolphins until his legs start to give way again. Then he turns around, picks up the black satchel from the pilot’s chair and staggers to the back of the room. He lies down on the narrow bunk that doubles as a storage locker, with the satchel at his side.
The engines murmur.
He sleeps.
He dreams.
“Wind-catching-seed-sending,” he rasps.
He reaches up as high as he can and plucks something out of the air. He cups it in the palm of his hand, brings it close to his face and studies it intently.
“Time-turning-space-shaping,” he rasps.
He falls silent again as he’s drawn all the way down to the fathomless depths where no thought exists.
Author's Note
How does fiction work? And, more specifically, how does this novel work? I struggled with these questions until I found myself writing a narrative that is, simultaneously, scientific and mythic, historical and allegorical, realistic and romantic. Of course, the 19th century multi-dimensional novel was blasted apart in the 20th century centrifuge of modernism and postmodernism. However, that doesn’t mean that, in the 21st century, we have to abandon the complexity of the form, or that we have to reduce it to an ironic pastiche. It means that we have to keep experimenting. And so I wrote a quantum novel that spins, like a quarky atom, in opposite directions at the same time. And within that quantum flux I found a dynamic logic: the evolutionary ‘algarithm’ (see Chpt. 21 for variant spelling and definition). In fact, I discovered whole series of evolutionary algarithms unfolding the narrative, just as my so-called genius-hero discovers whole series of them unfolding his life. In other words, the same evolutionary logic underwrites the form and the content of the novel. Just as I identified and activated these narrative codes, so too my so-called genius-hero identifies and activates them. As a result, he discovers new patterns, new connections, new symmetries. He discovers the history of the future. Algarithms flow us–our bodies, minds, stories, cultures–and we flow them. And they will continue to flow long after we are gone.
So, yes, how fiction works is a fundamental question. And how a novel engages history is another fundamental question. We’ve heard so much about the quiet desperation of unhappy families. We’ve heard so much about the savage torpor of the postmodern condition. And yet, instead of just recalling the spiritual desolation of late finance capitalism, perhaps we can reframe it. We hunger for new stories, new characters, new perspectives. We hunger for life, substance, ideas. We hunger for expressions of our necessary delusions, for interpretations of our contingent histories. And perhaps it is no accident that this profound hunger has returned at the precise moment in history when the ebook has arrived. It is particularly appropriate to both the form and content of this novel, for example, that it first appears as an electronic ghost on an electronic reader. A spooky book of algarithms is a risky proposition at any time, and especially so when anti-intellectualism is on the rise. However, along with its many political-ideological branches, anti-intellectualism also has some very deep socio-economic roots. Who can afford to read challenging books nowadays? And, I would add, who can afford not to read them? How we live now, how we narrate this particular moment, defines the history of the future. And that is why the newly affordable and newly diverse kinds of reading experiences made available via this newly invented medium are so important. So hats off to the ebook, and long live the printed book.
October, 2011