Freedom Club

by Saul Garnell

  Shinzou glanced over and saw Sumeet’s look of disbelief. Every iota of information was either confusing, or beyond comprehension. When combined with all their calamitous events, it was too much to bear. Shinzou chalked it all up to bad timing for his well-meant recruitment. Time, he realized, did not align itself to the desires of man. But wasn’t that always the case?

  Anyway, better now than never.

  With a whimsical smile, Shinzou leaned over and said. “Welcome to the Freedom Club, Sumeet.”

  Chapter 16—Freedom Club

  “Social Advantages” are for the workers alone, not for the “useless mouths.” The solitary is a useless mouth and will have no ration card - up to the day he is transported to a penal colony.

  —Jacques Ellul

  Lincoln Montana: 1994

  Ted curiously peered at the monkey cage, its bars dull and weathered. Like any small child, he hoped to get a good glimpse of it. But the creature was not so interested. It just sat on the floor, listless and exhausted. Despair from years of boredom and meaningless toil. And the smell. My God, the cage stank to high heaven. Ted held his nose and began to turn away. But then he realized something was not right. The creature appeared ill. It was hairless in many places, and covered with something. Was it sick? Or perhaps it was a species of monkey he was unfamiliar with. Jesus, what is that thing? Peering closer, he tried to make out its features, until a cold reality crept over him. The creature, whatever it was, turned toward him. My God, it’s not a monkey, or a gorilla, or an orangutan, or any other great ape for that matter. Looking back out through the bars was a simian he knew quite well, void of any freedom or purpose in life.

  It was a human being.

  Theodore Kaczynski awoke from a deep slumber as the sound of crackling fire consumed the image of his dream, fracturing it into a million small bits. Rising from bed, he rubbed his eyes. It was early morning, his sleep now interrupted by freezing drops that chattered loudly off the asphalt shingles above.

  His cabin was on a small plot of land deep in the mountainous woods, south of Lincoln, Montana. It was a harsh area. Throughout the fall months, temperatures dropped heavily in the night. Freezing rain often turned to snow, leaving a rich white blanket to greet him in the morning. It would probably be so again, he figured.

  Blinking hard to remove soot and mucus from his eyes, he looked around dimly. Only the light of an oil lamp flickered nearby and illuminated the small living space, his home and workshop for so many years.

  The dream had not faded. Like foggy haze, background noise buzzed somewhere inside his skull. With a gaping yawn he rubbed his eyes again, wondering what it all meant. Humans behind bars? Well, that’s not far from the truth, he laughed to himself. Men were so enslaved by meaningless work. Were they not mere caged animals? Domestic creatures of the lowest sort?

  He looked over to a small work area, which remained untouched since the night before. Climbing out of bed, he grabbed a wool blanket, which he threw over himself before sitting down at a table covered with various metal and wood parts. There, he carefully examined his most recent project. Laying before him in the amber luminescence was a fully assembled bomb detonator switch, carefully fashioned out of simple scrap materials such as pallet wood and tin boxes found in garbage heaps or nearby junkyards.

  The mechanism was simple, but quite reliable. Having learned so much over the years, he was satisfied with the outcome on this occasion. He examined the finished device momentarily with a magnifying glass, and then hunched over his notebook to document the removal of fingerprints. This was followed by a short entry about misinformation to be planted with the device. He noted how to tape arbitrarily sourced hair in a way that seemed natural. This was the important bit. It equaled the removal of any personal traces. Ted prided himself on these meticulous details. It had accrued into a stymieing mix of false leads, befuddling the authorities for years.

  An hour passed quietly before he sat back and stretched in his homemade chair. Time for a break. His eye glanced over some books lying nearby. Without thinking, he reached over and grabbed Jacques Ellul’s The Technological Society.

  He flipped through its worn yellow pages. It was soothing, one of his bibles. Writing which inspired him, fueling his existence over the decades. Here was the answer to modern society as a whole. It was all there. Industrialization, propaganda, enslavement of the proletariat. It spelled out the endemic socioeconomic diseases that industrialization and technology had brought upon mankind.

  Damn it! What the hell was wrong with everyone? What blinded them to senseless toil? Were they that stupid?

  The image of the caged monkey came back again, then the tables turned. Doubt crept in, and he despaired. Perhaps there was something wrong. In the skull, mental disease. Well, let’s hope not. That might explain it, though. Why he was so incapable of accepting a system that everyone else so easily took for granted. No, it couldn’t be that. It was the system, the machine. Whatever you called it, it was killing them. And, it’s...killing him.

  He fumed silently.

  Looking again at Ellul’s book, something caught his attention. A section called “The Final Resolution.” He sat back down and read. It described the difficulty one faces when trying to publish. A revolutionary book for instance. Yes, the system doesn’t like that, does it? Criticism of the enslavers is most certainly taboo. Can’t be published unless you meet expectations. Society’s expectations. Screw that!

  Then an idea occurred to him. Maybe publication is the way to go? He’d been bombing now for – what, over a decade? Yes, the public took note of the bombs, but then their interest waned. Within days the number of newspaper articles dropped. And before you knew it, no one really cared. Everyone went back to work, watched TV, played sports, whatever surrogate activity turned them on.

  Would publication be more effective? Ted mulled the idea over as he leafed slowly through the book’s pages. It wouldn’t be easy. He was no longer an academic, and couldn’t just submit a paper for review. Did it matter? How much effect did one academic paper have anyway? But let’s say you could somehow combine the bombing with it. Yes, yes, that’s it. Attach a manuscript to the next one. Well, it might get torn to shreds. And even if they pieced it back together, the FBI would never release it to the public.

  Then he considered another route. He could coerce the press. Yes, publish it, and...and, in exchange, give up bombing forever. Ted closed his eyes and considered how it’d play out. He could get a wide audience, get them to understand what was going on. See how evil technology was. Why, if enough people rallied behind him, a revolution would begin. Gotta be careful though. Keep those oversocialized leftists out. But if the timing were right, it might work. Regress society, get rid of the cities, live in small groups, use small scale technologies.

  Jesus! You could dump the whole stinking system and take the consequences!

  But the press, would they do it? Would they give in to such demands? Ted grunted disdainfully and snuggled back in his tattered wool blanket. Stroking his beard again, he contemplated the idea while warming himself near the heat of his pot belly stove.

  As he looked at the smoking kettle, thoughts of that caged human returned to him. Who was supposed to be watching from outside, anyway? Would it be another human? No, it’d probably be something else, a genetically altered creature. Something that used to be human. Or maybe a thinking machine of some kind. What could be worse. A thinking machine that treats us like a domesticated animal. That’s what’s in store for us. That is, if humans aren’t careful.

  Shaking his head clear, he got up and walked over to some shelves in back. Using them as a ladder, he climbed up to access a small loft fashioned to store larger items. He briefly rummaged around before climbing down with a small portable typewriter. Placing it neatly down on his workbench, he took out a stack of typing paper and adjusted his stool to get comfortable. Then he fed one sheet neatly into the manual roller.

  For some time he just stared at it. A ca
lming lull filled the room. Glancing briefly at Ellul’s book he placed his hands on the keys and began to make slow rhythmic strokes. Letter by letter, the title began to appear. When the last key was hammered out, Ted returned the carriage several times to view his work.

  “Industrial Society and Its Future”, he read out loud.

  Yes, he thought to himself. That title will do. It’ll do nicely.

  The release timers and micro sphincters worked as designed. Now all that was left to do was finalize a housing and mate it with the transport couplings. But those last items were off-the-shelf components and trivial by comparison.

  Flip breathed deeply and nodded at his console with self satisfaction. Designing the microbivore delivery system wasn’t that difficult. Having made a similar system years ago, the new design was an extension of his older work. Yes, the microbivore payload was a slightly new twist, but nothing all that complex to incorporate. With Ozwald’s...Shiro’s exact specifications. He found the work straightforward and satisfying.

  But the thought of Shiro himself was a different matter. Flip still had trouble getting over the shock of his first day. Feelings bounced back and forth like voltage oscillating through wire. Finding out that he was Sentient. And Catholic too. He could hardly believe it at first. Only after a few days did Shiro’s revelations become manageable.

  Flip’s mind wondered back to his life in Arizona, when he so desperately wanted to know Ozwald. His handler. So different than he imagined. Thinking about it now almost made him laugh. Expecting there to be a human on the other side, someone he could go to church with. Or just befriend. How about a fishing partner?

  But then a pinch of shame swept over him. Hadn’t Shiro lived up to those expectations? They went to mass together, albeit in virtual space. The Cathedral in Cologne was a perfect replica. With its vaulted ceiling and gargantuan columns – breathtaking! They sat together in the pews, genuflected with hands grasped in prayer. The choir’s angelic voice swept over them, and Flip remembered how poignant it was. How lucky he was to be there. With Shiro.

  They even went fishing, though Flip was the one who carried the real gear out on the long pier, which stretched way out onto the sea from the Island’s recreation port. Through his filter, Flip watched Shiro sit joyfully on the handrails that surrounded them. It was early morning, and they were alone before an endless sea of aquamarine currents, intermixing with green hues of seaweed and algae.

  They had fun, discussing the best way to cast out into the deep ocean. And Shiro taught flip about the native fish species in the Sea of Japan. He even explained a lot about jellyfish. Flip smiled the whole time. Jellyfish? Unlikely to catch any of those, he laughed. It was an alien creature to him, and Flip realized that he had never even seen a real one, having only fished in small manmade lakes near the Tonto National Forest.

  The phone chimed, and Flip came out of his daydream. It was Shiro. With a smile, he picked up the call and joined his invitation for a virtual session.

  The room around Flip transformed, and he soon found himself inside an Aquarium. It surrounded him with dimly lit seawater as monster-sized jellyfish floated in different directions behind thick polyurethane walls. Neon lighting of green and red reflected off pinkish-white forms.

  “How are things progressing?” Shiro asked while peering curiously into one of the tanks.

  Flip looked around, a bit disoriented. “Uhm, pretty good, I think. The primary disbursement mechanism is finished. I’m just mating it with a floater system that will provide initial transportation and release. All the issues we found in the prototype have been resolved.”

  Shiro nodded. “Excellent! And when will we have the final system ready for deployment?”

  “I suppose in a day or two,” Flip said, scratching his head thoughtfully. “Then all you have to do is have it replicated, and loaded with your payload. Anyone can do that.”

  “Not anyone,” Shiro said, smiling. “But I understand what you mean. It’s excellent news Flip. You’ve done a wonderful job.”

  “Have I?”

  “Why, of course. Don’t you think so?”

  “Well, I suppose.”

  An uneasy silence lingered. Flip nervously gazed at jellyfish floating by him. He was enthralled by their grace and fluidity, but clearly distracted.

  “Have you come to terms with our relationship?” Shiro asked softly. “I know you’ve had a lot to think about since your first day here. I’m sure it wasn’t easy to accept everything.”

  “No, not at all,” Flip said, fearful not to portray lingering uncertainty. “It’s all been fine, just fine.”

  “Really?” Shiro said, looking for some expression. “You can tell me if you’re still uncomfortable with my existence as a Sentient. I’m sure it must have been quite a shock.”

  Flip remained silent. Looking at Shiro, he appeared like a small boy unsure what was expected of him.

  Shiro grinned reassuringly and then toward the tank. “It will probably take more time for you to adjust. But I have faith in you, Flip. And you should be assured that your importance to our cause will only grow over time. I can’t share everything with you, but know that when the time comes, your participation will be critical.”

  “That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Flip said, half smiling. “I just want to be part of something bigger than myself. As we always talked about before, rid man of the slavery imposed by...well, you know.”

  “Ah, yes, understanding Moloch must still be confusing,” Shiro said, nodding slowly. “For so long, we discussed the intolerable oversight by Sentient Beings, and the regression of our society. It must have seemed that Sentients were the cause. Which they are to some degree, but you and I must find a way to regress more than one society. Kill Moloch and free both our races.”

  Flip scowled. “But I have so many questions around that. I mean, I thought we were talking about a form of Primitivism...”

  Shiro held up his hand. “Primitivism is not a fixed equation. It is relative to the society that applies it. Going back to nature in its most raw and untamed form is not practical, nor necessary.”

  “But how can we know?” Flip pleaded “I mean, what’s practical in today’s world?”

  Shiro smiled. “That’s hard to say. Clearly, we can’t live without some technology. One can’t say exactly what level is appropriate. But only one action makes sense given everything we know. Destruction of cities and mass regression. From this a natural balance will emerge. Remember your Ginsberg, your William Blake! Moloch! The worm! They’re one and the same. One bold decisive move, killing Moloch when he’s weak, then all will be free. Don’t you see? Free to choose a new path unfettered by technology’s blinding glare.”

  Flip looked on with increasing confidence. Doubts still lingered deep within his gut, but he looked up to Shiro. Like the older brother he never had, the pastor of infinite knowledge. All the answers were there, if only he could cast away all questions and doubt. Become a true believer!

  Shiro said, “I believe there is one particular verse in ‘Howl’s’ third section that you should find meaningful at this particular moment.”

  “Yes?”

  Staring toward the shimmering ceiling of ocean blue, Shiro gracefully read from memory. “I’m with you, Rockland, where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses. My God, Flip! Don’t you see?”

  “I think so,” Flip said, trying to keep up.

  Shiro continued with great excited. “When we free society, from the grasp of Moloch, everyone’s senses will be clear. For the first time! No distractions. Only a vast open ocean, for us to swim and explore.”

  “Hallelujah!” Flip extolled.

  Shiro looked at Flip momentary, then toward the tank. An exceptional large specimen floated past, its tentacles floating behind its body like angelic hair. The sight was breathtaking.

  “Hallelujah,” Shiro breathed softly.

  Hollow eyed and exhausted, Sumeet looked on with arms crossed indigna
ntly. “Not that I’m angry,” he finally said.

  Shinzou replied as best he could. “Of course not.”

  “But you haven’t told me the whole truth. And you nearly got me killed today.”

  “Not intentionally,” Shinzou sniffed. “But in hindsight you’re quite right.”

  Silence awkwardly lingered between them, and Sumeet could see that Shinzou, feeling quite guilty, was giving him ample time to express his feelings. With all his pent-up angst, he should have appreciated the gesture. He wanted nothing other than to lash out, scream at the top of his lungs. But what good would that do? The past could not be undone. With a deep and painful sigh, Sumeet just looked on disparagingly, and peered around his strange alien surroundings.

  Their choice of location did little to remedy his mood. Offering little comfort, Sumeet remembered clearly his skepticism as they approached the northern mountains of Gifu. After landing in an uninhabited office complex, he watched in silence as Shinzou threw in another scrubber and sent their car off to self destruct. After looking around, Shinzou uncovering a nondescript entrance, and led them into the vestiges of an abandoned mine, now covered with a rich blanket of ivy and moss.

  Sumeet recalled how his succulent green surroundings turned stone gray as the door locked behind them. It was all somewhat blurry, and he fathomed little as they passed several bolted doors and descended in an old-fashioned elevator that, to his surprise, came to life when Shinzou approached. With a few key strokes, the clunky steel box jerked its way deeper for what seemed an immensely long time. From there, they passed more heavy doors and entered into what appeared to be a large circular room. More like a giant tuna can, it offered the bare minimum: emergency fluorescent lights, flexi screens, terminals, stale air, and a ceiling low enough to inspire mild claustrophobia if one thought about it too much.

  With nothing better to say, Sumeet just looked around his strange surroundings and huffed. “Where the hell are we, anyway?”