Archive for the ‘Series’ Category
Somewhat Damaged
Friday, September 10th, 2010
Nothing, then the slow accretion of atoms pulling together, describing form, mind, body, bones, muscles, sinew, organs, and connecting tissue, as the transition recalls Vahid’s original pattern, reassembles him in this strange place. His new skin tingles, intensely sensitive, nerves afire with renewal. He flexes various muscles, and notices that he only has two arms; a mistake by the transition team, or a deliberate act so that he more fully fits in with this altuniv? Regardless, he will have to get used to the handicap.
As his vision coalesces, he sees concrete flooring, wooden pallets, yellow construction equipment, and endless metal racks full of cardboard boxes, dimly lit from high above by standby lights. Nighttime, in a closed warehouse. He’s made it.
He moves quietly to the far end of the warehouse, to the assigned drop location. The canvas messenger bag contains the clothes, sandals, tablet, and mobile phone planted by Vahid’s handler, as well as bottled water, a pair of energy bars, and three hundred local dollars in various multicolored notes.
Ravenous from the transition, he tears the foil from the energy bars, gobbles down the food, gulps water to wash it down. The clothing is snug, but fits well enough. He thumbs on the tablet and gets the safehouse address and a digital map with directions from the warehouse to the safehouse, only a few blocks away.
Vahid stows the tablet back in the shoulder bag, finds the exit (unlocked), and emerges into a sultry tropical evening, the air full of Southeast Asian food odors: curries and ginger and exotic fruit. He proceeds only as far as the end of the dusty lane before being spotted by a thuggish youth on a motobike chatting up a made-up young woman the same age. Upon seeing Vahid, he raises two arms, two arms on one side, and shouts, “Freeeeeak!”
And the others appear from nowhere, from around corners, from shop doorways, from the shadows themselves, each and every person four-armed, like Vahid himself before the transition, and he doesn’t see the first rock as it strikes above his right eye, nor the others as they connect with his knees, his left ear, his stomach, his kidneys, his two useless arms. In this place where he should blend in completely, he is surrounded, so fast, how do they move so fast, and before the first lead pipe or bat or length of board beats down, Vahid only has time to curse the transition team and his own willingness to make the worlds a better place.
This piece is just one in a 23-part linked narrative called Fragile, which will take a liberal interpretation of the song titles (but not the lyrics) of the masterful Nine Inch Nails double-album The Fragile. To read the other chapters in this series, click on the category “Fragile” below.
Connected / Chapter 7: Disconnect
Friday, September 3rd, 2010
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The following is the final chapter of the flash serial, “Connected.” Search for the tag “Connected” to find other chapters.
They find Morello surrounded by the bodies.
“My son,” he says, by way of an excuse. “They put my Caul in a coma.”
One hundred forty-seven dead. All terrorists. Responsible for thirty-six deaths and sixty-two comas. Including Morello’s son. One forty-seven to ninety-eight. Morello takes that as a win.
The Vigilant Vigilante, the pressfeeds dub him. Rogue AI leak parts of his recorded feed. Children relive his moments of rage and revenge. They hack Caul’s feed too. Five hundred bucks for five minutes of coma static. It’s a seller’s market.
They put him on trial. The pressfeeds go wild. They blame themselves, music, society. A society of hate they say.
“No,” Morello says. “I did it for love.”
With Morello, society is on trial. When everyone is connected, when the thoughts of parents, siblings, friends, co-workers, celebrities, presidents, all mutter in the back of your head, who is innocent? Who is guilty?
And Morello sits in his cell. And his son lies in his coma.
The first jury is hung. Perfectly balanced. Mind connects to mind and fails to find black and no white. Just gray.
There is no answer, no simplicity. Only fuel for a media funeral pyre. And eventually that burns out.
Finally the government lawyer comes for him. “We cannot hold you,” he says. “We cannot let you go.” The lawyer’s meatsack wears round polished glasses. He outlines the compromise.
#
Caul’s hospital room is cold and white. Caul’s meatsack is two years older than when it first lay down. Morello lies down next to it. Nurses attach wires and evict his soul.
#
Caul’s mind is cold and white. His body does not move. Morello is the ghost in its machine. “Caul,” he says, “I want to tell you a story. I want to talk to you about love.” And he speaks into the white blankness of his son’s mind, and he tells him of ties stronger than wireless signals, and what it drove him to do.
#
Outside, Morello’s wife sits and watches what passes for justice. She sits alone. Disconnected. And she does not share the moment when her son’s hand twitches.