The conversational tone more than the words calmed Arc down just a bit, and she motioned for him to relax and continue his proposition. Long white locks dangled on her majestic shoulders. She sat regally, like a CEO about to hold court at a marketing meeting, her calm attitude once more blanketing her disgust. He didn’t realize that she didn’t know what “freedoms” were. She assumed he was talking about her fellow slaves’ freedom. All he meant was making profit. Misperception sometimes led to fruitful dialogue.
“I want answers. And not the bullshit scripted lines I get from all the other gooneys you sent in here.”
“Good, good. I want answers too. Let us bargain.”
“OK, you ask first, and if I think your question merits an answer, then I’ll give you one. And once you give an answer, you can ask me again. And we take turns.” The haggling began.
He figured he’d start with low-hanging fruit and then move to more serious questions. “Hmm, well…what is a fake tale? We observed you calming the Brac brat by telling her fake tales.”
“Ugh, names, please?”
He gave in. “Carolina Brac.”
“Fake tales?”
“Yes, the child stories about knights and heroes and…and…you know. The fake tales. The lies you spread like weeds in the mind of that gullible rat…youth.”
Confusion cleared into clarity in her eyes, “Oh, you mean fairy tales.”
“Why would you fill that child’s mind with these fake tales, and how by all the human stock does it calm her down?” He paused. “That teenager is exasperating—all my scientists say so. The blame is on your schooling system for not having randed that beast to teach her virtue.”
“One question at a time, mister.”
“Do you always let your teenagers behave like such emotional animals? They must be useless additions to society.”
“Hahaha.” Something he had said made her laugh. “Teenagers do ride emotional roller coasters. That much we can agree on.” She eased into her seat and crossed her shapely legs comfortably; Doc Gus had a similar habit when analyzing subjects. “You tell me what kind of stories you think make sense to tell a kid. And then I’ll tell you why fairy tales—or fake tales, as you say—have meaning and a place in the human experience.”
“That’s easy,” he retorted. “Lies makes sense. Nothing tricks a kid into an education like a good made-up lie. Sometimes realistic stories make sense too. Those are what young humans need to hear.”
She bit her tongue for the sake of compromise.
He began to lecture. “Stories translate messages, entertain, and are an effective means of communicating reality. They can be used as a source of entertainment, to rouse human pleasure—granted, you pay high amounts for legitimate quality. Xchange also uses stories to direct humanity. The Quality Control police use storytelling teams all the time to keep the stability of our society. In our Upbringing organization, we tell youths glory stories of success, dreams of freedoms, discourses on hard work, and examples of production. We teach a better way to live and a higher ideal. The yield of such stories is enormously successful.” He paused for a breath after his lecture.
“Forget what you know and see if you can follow my train of thought. Fairy tales encourage a human to dream,” Arc said. “Dreaming is an important aspect of our nature. To nurture dreams and desire to live them. They take us into a reality that is not infringed upon by the fear that restricts us in real life. They talk about the human spirit expanding and growing toward eternal values and hopes. Transcendence, in other words.”
“What about gritty reality, means to an end, scientific truth, and tangible facts? Your stories are never anchored by substance?”
The conversation went back and forth. At the end, David surprisingly felt like it had been informative. Productively wholesome.
The interviews continued with the other two slaves, Gimp and Mop, all starting with anger at their abuse and then settling into conversation as David displayed a genuine appetite for knowledge. He was getting better at this as he went along. He used many little lies to propel the dialogue.
Frank started by saying, “You people over here in Xchange have forgotten what it means to be human. You probably don’t even know the history of our people. Human beings and human-doings are the same thing.”
Awkward lies! His team was listening, so he shifted the conversation immediately. He had read the report of Frank telling this same lie to his scientists. He wanted some new information. “Frank, as you wish to be called, what sort of career aspirations do you have?”
“Career? What does career have to do with any of this?” The slave paused for a moment, confused, giving his captor a chance to speak.
“My proposition is that you help me and I help you. I have many career aspirations. Freedom is one of them, and damn, it’s expensive. I cannot reach any of those goals if I just let you continue without reciprocating. What do you want to know in exchange for information? Let’s bargain.”
“You’re crazier than my missionary brother, Pastor Bro!” He paused for effect. “But I might as well learn something from this whole experience.” He paused, rubbing a hand on his chin. “I want to know how your hovercraft engine functions. I want schematics to look at while I sit in that stupid clear jail of yours.”
“Your cells aren’t clear.”
“You think I’m an imbecile who can’t identify mirrored glass? How will dialogue happen if we treat each other like fools?”
“Good point.”
“Hover motors. How do those motor function? It’s been an ongoing argument between me and others in my area of expertise, and I’d like to settle the argument once and for all. I want to know how it works. I want the science behind it.”
David nodded to the monitor screens where his technicians were waiting for his instructions, and a compilation of drawings and technical specifications from an older generation of hover jets printed out on the side of the room. David waved them in front of the broad-shouldered slave. “I’ll give these to you if you give me something useful. How do you control humans? I don’t see brands on any of you except for the cross blemish on the older members of your group who are linked with missionaries. Why is that?”
“Hahaha. Hahahaha.” Frank bellowed at the prospect of branding people in Tri-Coalition. “God, there would be another world war if you tried to brand people. We’re not the government’s toys or some company’s property.”
The discussion continued and was very insightful. After Mop left the room, David signaled for Gimp to enter.
Gimp’s interest was all about the topic of addiction. He apparently volunteered with a group that helped kids get off drugs. The very idea of volunteering was mind-bogglingly stupid to David. Gimp was fascinated by the effects of the tattoo on Nnectonians’ arms. David was willing to talk about the brand if Gimp explained in detail Tri-Coalition’s education system. And so the two spoke relatively cordially. Gimp, or Domin, was a mild-mannered and even-tempered man. He was fascinated with the well-being of David and all creatures. Odd indeed for the one who should’ve been more concerned about his own well-being. Domin was a hopeful and kind individual. It came across in the way he spoke and related.
The great Lave Labs work progressed as the conversations grew and developed into useful sources of information.
Chapter 27
Mental Coping
Quarter 1, Day 12
“Mindmonk Gustavus, PhD, SPX of Health Resources, Division for Career Mental Psychosis Protection.” David read the engraving on the impressive stone door out loud to anyone in the waiting room who would listen. David knew that Doc Gus preferred casual instead of formal, but David always started their mental health sessions very formally until he relaxed. Some things were just ingrained into you as a youth.
“David-23, Nnectonian manager-in-training, annual health subscription 285, Productzen 200,170, patient twelve of the day…gosh, if we constantly use titles, I’ll run out of digits to describe your place in so
ciety,” the bearded Mindmonk panted jokingly, then gave an intelligent-sounding snort. “My brain isn’t hefty enough to recollect all that mumbo jumbo.”
“That’s why we use computers to order and direct society, sir,” David reminded his mentor.
“David, when we’re in public, please use the official title given to me by the Mindmonk Order, but during your private mental health discussions, please use the name that my friends call me, Doc Gus.”
“Do you really have any friends?”
“Yes, most of us ‘normal’ individuals do.”
“I never see you out clubbing; you have no weekly subscriptions, gym accomplishments, or promotions posted on any of your digital walls.” David jested.
“Stalking much?”
“It’s good practice for project interviews.” Basic social media stalking skills were taught in the upbringing seminars. “I see no signs of ‘normal’ activity in your life. Excuse the invasion of privacy, Doc Gus.”
“Friends, as they used to be known in the old days,” the monk mused. “I’ve been reading some stories from the archives, which our order has access to.”
“Not your outdated research again?” David knew that dabbling with the past was a way to discontent oneself with the present.
“Of course, I flirt with history. I have learned that friends are not something you pay for.” The kindly middle-aged man sat on an orange bowl-shaped chair, identical to the rotating chair in which David-23 sat across from him. “But enough of my vices and on to your mental health, the subject at hand. My musings can wait for another time.”
Mindmonks had no brands because they were born prepurchased and raised for the sole purpose of maintaining mental health and spiritual equilibrium. They were integral to the attitude of society. Some of the original founders of the Order were still alive, survivors from the pre-Xchange days. Many of the Mindmonks were selected as youth out of the Thrive Upbringing division. David suspected youths were chosen who had an acute sense of empathy mixed with a logical mental process. Most Mindmonks seemed to think alike. That being said, a few of the monks were self-appointed free people who had entered the Order to give back to society. Monks wore yellow-and-tan robes, which flowed from their heads to their ankles; on the yellow chest, the image of a human stick figure with a brain on its head signified the connection between the mind and the body. The robe’s hood had MM, for Mindmonk, stamped into its modern Thrive fabric. A black utility belt, with various frequently used gadgets, gathered the robe in at the hips.
The patient room was circular, with a reflective dome roof that arched fifty feet above the seated occupants. The orange chairs floated thoughtfully in the middle of the room. The flooring, the walls, and the ceiling were all one interconnected cinematographic screen. The Mindmonks used the projection screens to set moods for their patients and to encourage a state of openness for mental career healing. In one moment a peaceful green rolling mountain scene could turn into violent foaming waves or a scene of corporate managers pointing and waving, which could quickly fade into scenes of sexy human products from Orns, buzzing Gravetless trains zipping by, public holiday festivals, and so on—whatever scene the monks deemed valuable to evoke emotion, insecurity, fear, confidence, compliance, sensual passion, and most importantly desire for success. Docs always designed their health sessions to orient a human-doing toward social norms and product ideals. It was their way, their truth, and their life. It was their sacred calling. Monks inspired workers of Xchange with a healthy passion for climbing the career ladder, with the climactic goal of owning themselves and owning others. Mindmonks strove to inspire happiness and a secure society for posterity.
As a Nnectonian product, David had an annual mental health subscription deducted automatically from his wages, which included two monthly sessions and four yearly emergency sessions. It was a blessing to work for a company that cared about its products. David thanked his brand every time he was renewed by the support of the monks. David had come to see his assigned Mindmonk, Doc Gus, because he was trying to comprehend the world-shattering revelations from his days at the Nnect Lave Labs.
His mind spun with ideas and internal dilemmas.
The brown beard, speckled with premature gray hairs—tokens of wisdom—shifted thoughtfully. “Sounds like a severe case of worldview disorientation.”
“No one told me.”
A chuckle. “Minions aren’t given the full truth—too much to handle.”
“I get that, but there’s another world of humans—another civilization with different values, beliefs, and history. That’s a big deal.” David was trying to explain his stress to the golden-robed monk. “Another civilization, which is trying to undermine the very fabric of Xchange and the human stock market. But you already know all this.”
The golden robes swirled and the floating seats rotated in a circle. “Yes, we have access to the complete chronicles of history, but speak your mind. This is part of your health journey.”
David felt foolish speaking what he had learned out loud. It sounded so foolish, banal, and false. “This other civilization allows human beings to integrate into society from birth as free beings without a guiding brand to shape their passions and motivations.”
“Hmmm. Sounds like you’re struggling with an overdose of philosophical questions. The balance between answers and questions is misaligned.” The monk noted some thoughts onto a tablet that materialized from his seat.
“What would perfect the functionality of the innate human waywardness?” David said with angst. “What would shape human laziness into usefulness? Who would organize the sexual, relational, and social relationships? How would a secure future be passed on to posterity?”
“Deep breaths. Let the questions overwhelm you but not consume you.”
Faces. Faces were intruding into his psyche. Faces pointing at him in all directions, the faces of the human slaves, haunting his dreams. David closed his eyes as his mind spun. He was losing control.
The monk rose from his floating chair and grasped David’s temples between his hands. He screamed into the abyss of David’s confusion, invoking a prayer of calmness, “Twenty-Three, ride the confusion—let it seize you. Then let it go. Let it wash past.”
Faces. A beautiful defiant face framed by otherworldly white hair, a halo. Tara’s face screamed out to the world that she would fight for what she believed, even if it meant death. And Nnect might kill her. Softness and hardness merged in her face.
David’s body began to shake.
Faces. A clueless young child’s face as he played with toys, unaware that he was the toy about to be played with.
The steadying hands of the Mindmonk began to shake, as the monk invoked a more powerful incantation. “Reason, allow your servant to open the gates inside his mind.” The tenor of his voice resounded like a whip cracking. “Do not be consumed.”
Faces. A powerful CEO’s face, driven by the ideals of success and ownership of others. By a love of directing humanity. David adored this face. He admired this role model.
Faces. Grandpa Greg locking him in a closet and making him beg.
Faces. His own Selfie’s face, filled with the thrill of newly found authority, struggling with his inner motivation to prove himself.
Faces. The face of Gayle and her resistance to the PPRE, which filled him with anger and frustration. She had such a low level of relationship compliance.
“Let it do, and then let it go!” The monk shouted into the darkness of his mind.
The faces led to an overwhelming jumble of thoughts, which contorted and twisted like ropes that could not be unknotted.
An uncontrollable twitching began in his left hand. He couldn’t open his eyes. His body began to spasm, shoulders convulsing like a fish on land.
The monk began to rub a gel on David’s brand, hoping to stimulate its comforting touch. David’s brand was still not functioning properly; it didn’t seem to be stimulating him consistently. It seemed haphazard and irregular
.
David felt the gel soothe his skin and sink into the ink of the tattoo. The caress of the drug helped a bit. Somewhere in his confused mind, he begged the god of stocks to not let anyone know about his tattoo’s weakness. It was embarrassing that he was broken. Ever since his run-in with the wild canine’s deadly jaws and his encounter with the old man on the Gravetless train, his tattoo was less convincing and more irregular. His blue brand was not supporting him or guiding him clearly.
At that moment of disorientation and despair, the guiding voice of Doc Gus burst through the darkness of the mind. He followed that voice out of the labyrinth that trapped him.
The brand did not activate, but the calming ethos, the pillar of reality, of the monk brought David back to himself. The spasms slowed until he could sit without fear of hurting himself.
The monk’s fingers drew the sign of X on his forehead, and he intoned, “May his drive for success ever hold back all of his other inner thoughts and countercultural motivations that seek to grasp a servant of posterity. Amen.”
Sweating and panting, David thanked the monk; they sat back down and continued.
“Your mind’s instability is torturing your heart and body. It’s good for you to be seen by me.”
The rushing deluge of emotions crashed forward as the conducive environment unlocked the gates of his normally constrained feelings. His experiences poured haphazardly out into this safe space. He told Doc Gus everything—except about Irish Pub, the old man on the Gravetless, the illegal armband, Grandpa Greg’s tormenting, and Gayle’s disdain.
“I reviewed your log before you arrived.” Doc Gus had access to conversations that David had had with Selfie, which helped prepare the monk with a clearer image of the problems that needed to be discussed.
“Thank goodness Selfie records everything. I can’t imagine having to explain everything in words.”
“Selfie had many improvement ideas for its human doppelgänger.”
A Tale Of Doings Page 35