T.H.E.i.

by Karl Tutt

  Chapter 3

  I felt something slither up my spine. I’d felt it before and suddenly I was frightened. The images . . . the memories. They were supposed to be gone. It was a slate T.H.E.I. had tried to wash clean. After all, I’d been to Camp. It was supposed to be the absolute cure for any trace of subversive thoughts, but the phantoms lurked in my mind. The wraiths tripped in and out of focus, leaving hints and suggestions of things I knew I wasn’t supposed to recognize, much less understand. But I had a creeping realization. I’m not sure why. It was as if someone or something was trying to contact me.

  There was no physical pain, not even what might be called discomfort. Those things no longer existed in our paradise. That’s what they always called it . . . our paradise . . . every man’s wish a command. No hunger, no disease, no violence. It was an existence as perfect as any man could ever desire. And of course, there was Suzy. She loved me, cared for me, listened as no other sentient being could. We had it all, didn’t we? Surely that’s what they wanted us to believe, and how could any sane man question their wisdom? But maybe that was the final dilemma. . . were we? Sane, that is.

  Sane . . . the word stabbed at my consciousness. What the hell did it mean? Rational? Normal? And what was that? Is it a relative quantity measured by some standard set by an omnipotent entity? Is it normal to accept every command . . . to let T.H.E.I. determine the rules and dictate our every action and thought? Were we to march in unison in pursuit of a universal goal, without any original idea . . . to sit dumb in our chairs and watch our bodies shrink while our every desire and need was fulfilled by our submersion in the Vid? Was that the Peace and Love they promised? And what about happiness? Was it a state identified by the individual, or some condition defined by our submissiveness . . . our acceptance . . . our unquestioning obedience to T.H.E.I.?

  Last week I had drawn my night shade and forced my way through some of that book by the guy called Aristotle. It was something about “ethics”. I still wasn’t sure I knew what that word meant. He wrote, “there are no good men --- only men trying to do good”. And according to him, man could only be happy by trying to do good. But what was good when everything was perfect? When man lived in paradise? How could there be good when there was no evil? Was there a thing with no relativity, cloaked in a malevolent disguise that was impenetrable as long as we adhered to the dictates of an impersonal abstraction? A thing we saw, but could not touch. A thing we could hear, but forbade us to speak. Was that happiness . . . or a surrender? And if it was at least contentment, what of despair, sadness, failure? Words with no real meaning? No grounding in thought or action? It was a conundrum, a kind of circular madness with no beginning and no end.

  I tried to shut down my mind. I was afraid --- if they knew, I would go back to Camp and they would make another attempt to eliminate all traces of my subversion. Then again, maybe it was the best way. A total erasure, the absence of the demons that drove me to the brink of madness . . . perhaps even a kind of mindless solace. Was it what I secretly wanted? But what if they couldn’t? What if I had reached some sort of arbitrary limit? Would I follow those who “went missing” or simply become T.C.?

  I slammed my palm into my temple with a loud thump. My head rattled and I tried again to clear it. Maybe I still could . . . at least for now . . . but what of the damned dreams? They wouldn’t leave me.

  The first one had come not long before the Dwarf shoved the second note under my door. Suzy was out. “Seek the beauty of the Void,” the letters read, again scratched in pencil. I trembled as I scanned it. My left leg was growing shorter and I limped to retrieve it before my loving creation got home. I read it twice, then repeated the original process . . . tearing it into tiny shreds and stuffing it in my mouth. It had a salty taste, much like the trails of sweat I licked off Suzy after we had rolled and coupled in passion. Was it the taste of the dwarf or just an illusion? Perhaps I wanted the paper to have an earthy hint of humanity in it. A reassurance that this was life . . . not just existence. What exactly was the Void and did the answer lie within it?

  My mind drifted to the other book, WALDEN. The Thoreau guy --- he lived by that pond ---wrote it. I didn’t really get it. I mean he lived in a tiny shack that he built himself. No running water, no heat, no auto-food, and no companionship. He read books and looked at the trees, the insects, the birds, and the things of the forest. I don’t think those things even exist anymore. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced . . . or wanted to. I guess the trees and all of those things were nice, but we saw them all on the Vid, didn’t we? Still he was fulfilled . . . even happy. He bathed in the pond each morning. I guess it was some sort of baptismal, like the stuff they did when the old religion existed. He felt as though that form of existence sanctified him in some way, brought him closer to a kind of God and gave life real meaning. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a real tree, or even a bird, but T.H.E.I. give us all of that. Was the Void a place where those things he described could happen . . . actually come alive?

  It was just too damned much. I decided that the Guide was right. I lived in our paradise with Suzy and I would ask no more questions. I wondered if I could get the books out of the unit without detection. I didn’t need the confusion . . . or the temptation. Maybe I could even burn them. Suddenly I felt better . . . even safer somehow. I settled into the recliner and drifted, then dozed.

  It crept upon me . . . the awareness easing into my sub-conscious. But it was him. I’d dreamed him before, but this time he was on a tennis court, but I was there, too . . . again. Not hovering, not some specter with no form or physical presence. Yet there was an ephemeral quality to it all. I knew it was impossible, but it seemed as though I was within him. I embraced the sun and the sweat trickling down his forehead. I felt the powerful thrust of his stroke --- the grace and strength as the strings pounded the yellow ball. It danced over the net with equal measures of force and elegance. On the other side was a woman I thought I should know. The moisture glistened on her brown body as tried to bring her image into focus. She drew her golden arm back to return the ball. Her hair was tied back in a long pony tail, but it billowed over her shoulder like a golden waterfall. She moved with a sensual stride and a confidence. Still she mishit the ball, and froze as it bounced into the net. She shook her head and laughed. It was sweet and musical, the sound of a gentle clown forgiving her own small failure, even reveling in the weakness of her humanity. That was all there was . . . at least the first time . . . but something lingered . . . a familiarity, call it a sense of deja vue. I recognized it, even though the images were shrouded in fog. I tried, but I couldn’t quite square them into secure forms.

  I dismissed it. Another dream . . . I had them from time to time, but they were mostly about Suzy, the quiet way she ran the brush thorough her burnished hair, the way she melded her lush body into mine when we lay on the sheets, her laugh like a symphony, and the wonderful places we’d been. She loved me with the passion and soft touch of a master sculptress. In some ways, I was her creation, rather than she mine. I smiled inwardly, but the sense of euphoria began to fracture at the edges, grow thin, and crumble in barren flakes.

  The image of the Dwarf surfaced again. It was a capture, temporary, but brutal. My thoughts bubbled and swirled in a vile caldron. What was this Void he spoke of in the notes? An absence of some sort? But of what? Was it something mental, something physical, or was it a spiritual state? And why did he send me another message? Was I now in some way his target?

  “Sweetheart, I’m home.” The silvery voice of Suzy assaulted my confusion and filled the unit with energy like fresh clover honey, ready to be tasted and savored as it expanded and engulfed everything in the unit.

  She brushed my cheek with full red lips and placed her hand on my chest. She peered gently into my face for a moment and pursed her lips before she spoke.

  “I’m not sure what is, but you just don’t seem to be yourself these days. At times you are distant. Have you been connecting w
ith the ports in the chair? Remember . . . don’t question it. Those fluids are your redemption. Now tell me, are you all right?”

  I nodded and forced a smile.

  “Maybe we should go back to Paris. We can stay in Rue Cler, sit at Café du Marche sipping expresso and watching the parade of the French riding their bicycles, or just strolling through the fall evening. We could walk to the Eiffel Tower, maybe even go to Musee D’Orsay . . . see the Van Goghs and the Delacroix.”

  I looked at my left leg. It was pink and mushy like an overripe peach. I hadn’t measured it in a few days, but I could feel it getting smaller. My left arm was damned near useless. It hung at my side like a once healthy branch now waiting to be amputated by a violent wind, or simply lopped off by something sharp and final. But I knew as long as I had Suzy, I could go anywhere or do anything that made me whole. I grinned at her and ran my fingers through her fragrant, thick hair. It was a sweet meeting of jasmine and roses, sensuous and intoxicating. The locks caressed my fingers.

  She put her head to my chest and took a deep breath.

  “I worry about you,” she whispered. “I want everything to be okay. My job is loving you and making sure that all of your needs are met. You can’t forget that. Talk to me. That’s all I ask.”

  “Trust me, I’m fine, but you know I think you may be right. A trip to Paris could be just what I need. But wait . . . Paris is always lovely in the spring, but now I’m thinking Florence, the Uffizi . . . a trip through some of those beautiful Tuscan towns . . . maybe Siena, Padua, Orvieto. Some of that luscious red wine. We could even do Rome. I wouldn’t complain about seeing the Trevi Fountain one more time.”

  “That’s the way to think. You consider the options --- then plan. All you have to do is let me know and we’ll make it happen. I promise. Have the itinerary tomorrow.”

  When Suzy promised, it was done. I could almost taste the rich, fruity D’Abruzzo flowing over my eager lips and easing down the back of my throat. Did it get any better?

  The answer should have been “no”, but it just didn’t belong. My consciousness throbbed to a beat that was at once irreverent and frightening. There were shadows filled with serpents and ghosts . . . lurking, growing stronger, more powerful . . . expanding . . . pushing from the inside out . . . swelling in me even as my body shrunk. But there was an even greater horror hiding in the hellish miasma. Unimaginable, terrifying, the final pit of the abyss. I’d had glimpses of it, but at first I didn’t realize what it was. I was beginning to. It was the fear of being alone, incarcerated in the dungeon of my cancerous self. I couldn’t let that happen. Without Suzy, there was no tomorrow.

  We had a magnificent plate of Frutti De Mare. Shrimp, scallops, fileted chunks of Sea Bass, marinated in a Chardonnay oozing butter, fresh lemon juice, and delicate spices, the tangy concoction crowning homemade angel hair pasta. The auto-food had done it all. It was perfect . . . but then everything was. We drank a good Zinfandel and laughed like children. Suzy positively glowed, but she always did. I tried to picture life without her, but it was a cold, barren place that I could not go.

  The love that night drove us into a frenzied ecstasy. She explored my body with her moistened lips, her tongue flicking like a demented demon in every crevasse of my willing being. She took me into her mouth and milked the semen as I writhed and moaned. I tasted her wetness, sucking and savoring the sweet fluid. It ran like a hot fountain over my tongue and down my throat. As all things do . . . it had to end, but our senses, physical, mental, and spiritual had joined to meld into one final state of Nirvana.

  At last, we slept.