The Difference Between Crimson and Cardinal Red

Part 1

Vance and Selene Centvin discovered Lidingo together. They’d been on the affluent Swedish island in the Stockholm archipelago for six days. They’d picnicked on Fagelouddebadet beach, savoring an assortment of Vidal ice wines they’d bought at the Systembolaget liquor store and feasting on Kalles kaviar sandwiches. They’d explored the Lidingo Centrum shopping mall with cool detachment, making several purchases. They’d browsed the books at Akademibokhandeln. Centvin purchased Selene a fine Sjoo Sandstrom watch at the Stjarnurmakarna jewelry store. They’d ambled down the Kyrkvagen holding hands and sipping espressos under cover of night, a burning red moon hanging in the air. They’d rambled up the Batvagen under a cerulean sky with puffy marshmellow clouds and a yellow washed-out looking sun, Centvin in eggplant hued slacks, an amethyst colored shirt, purple suede Pumas, Chopard sunglasses and a raspberry beret. Selene wore a tasteful honey blonde dress and Anny Nord sandals. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a severe bun. The Centvins were just floating along, enjoying the breeze, watching the sleepwalkers buzzing around like bees.

The couple had arrived on the island six days earlier dressed like refugees from a war zone. Battered suitcases. Mended second-hand clothes. Dusty shoes. After checking into a hotel they unpacked and Vance Centvin pulled up his right pantleg revealing a sleeve wrapped around his knee. Tucked safely underneath the knee sleeve, wrapped in plastic, was a wad of grey and brown 1000 krona notes with their portrait of Dag Hammarskjold and an even thicker wad of hundred dollar bills with their portrait of Ben Franklin. Centvin had a larger amount of cash, as well as several gold Krugerrands with their portrait of Paul Kruger, in a money belt secured around his waist. Centvin found gold solved many of life’s unexpected problems. For Vance Centvin, gold was merely a tactical device.

On that first day in Lidingo, after showering and dressing in instantly forgettable tourist clothes, the couple walked out of the hotel and located a car rental service where Centvin arranged for the use of a red Mercedes-Benz CLS.

Cruising the streets of Lidingo with Selene in the red Benz, Centvin smiled — his mood was improving greatly. The reason Centvin was in Sweden was not conducive to a calm peaceful vacation but he was with the woman he loved and the breeze on the Swedish island was pleasantly crisp and agreeable to him this fine summer afternoon. Vance Centvin began singing: “And honey I say — little crimson Benz, baby you’re much too fast! Little crimson Benz — you need a love that’s gonna last!” Selene insisted the Benz wasn’t crimson but was actually cardinal red. Centvin allowed that Selene may be correct but he was calling it a little crimson Benz, anyway.

The Centvins had reluctantly headed to Lidingo after recieving a message from HEAVEN, a hacker Centvin had encountered while streaming live on SpectraNet — the social media platform which allowed total freedom to stream anything you wanted to stream without legal ramifications from any governmental entity in the world. Up to and possibly including murder. Centvin thought that was just an urban myth to lure in the rubes; Centvin had seen some weird shit on SpectraNet but never a murder. Centvin knew Anvil Flask, the mysterious trillionaire who had created SpectraNet, as well as the solar-powered automobile company MOUCHOT and the HypnoGraft neural interface chip had a villa in Lidingo.

The message from HEAVEN which prompted the Lidingo trip:

I have hidden in the shadows; a player on the sidelines.

I have hidden from the watchers; in the clothes of a vagabond.

I swam underwater to avoid their sight,

as they peered from the lighthouse on the rocks.

Teeth clenched on the hilt of my dagger.

Fire in my heart.

I have come to unchain your heart from this world; it has grown heavy.

I have been severing the chain; with time here spent with you.

I secured the chain. Chose a tool to cut it,

and severed the chain.

Now you are free.

Centvin didn’t know what that meant. But the message intrigued him enough so that later, when a coded message instructed him to travel to Lidingo and meet a man named Abn Tunis, Centvin decided to comply. The message warned him to be very careful. To use false identification and attempt evasive measures. Centvin and Selene were being watched. A date, time and place was designated.

Centvin booked passage for himself and Selene under aliases — Centvin had cultivated a large collection of false identification for himself and his wife over the years. Centvin parked their purple Lexus GX SUV in a parking garage and emerged from the structure in a small unmemorable KIA. Then Centvin drove himself, Selene, and their luggage to a large cargo vessel with powerful engines and crossed the sea. Vance Centvin already knew what Abn Tunis looked like from Centvin’s livestream on SpectraNet — Tunis had appeared on it with Centvin before via camera. The first time had been when Centvin thought he’d randomly chosen six people from his six million plus subscribers to discuss the assassination attempt on ex president Quetzalcoatl. Centvin later discovered HEAVEN had hacked into his system and planted Abn Tunis on the stream where Centvin had first heard HEAVEN speak. So when the tan slim man appeared at the wrought iron table outside of the cafe that the couple occupied Centvin rose, extended his hand, and said: “Hello, Tunis. Nice to finally meet you.” Selene stayed seated but smiled pleasantly at Abn Tunis, who shook Centvin’s hand briefly but warmly and asked to join them. Centvin said: “Of course,” and called a waiter. Abn Tunis ordered a glass of iced tea while the couple nursed their drinks.

Tunis moves in short economical motions for such a young man, Centvin thought. He also noticed Tunis dressed simply: a white sport shirt and tan khakis, both freshly pressed, and ancient running shoes. When his tea arrived Tunis saluted the couple: “Bismillah.”

"Same to you,” Centvin said pleasantly.

Tunis placed his iced tea carefully on a coaster and said: "I trust you were stealthy travelling here. I, myself, was followed but I was easily able to lose them. I am used to evading their unwanted attention.”

"I ain’t James Bond, Tunis.” Centvin said. “I did the best I could. False identification. Different clothes.”

Tunis laughed gently. "Oh, I am sure you did the best you could. No worries. What will be — will be.”

"Profound,” Centvin said, smirking.

“What will be — will be,” Tunis repeated, unaware of Centvin’s sarcasm. “The important thing is that you made it to Lidingo.”

Centvin twirled his glass of iced coffee loaded with cream and sugar. “Look, Tunis, you seem like a nice kid —"

"Kid?” Tunis shook his head. “I am older than I look, Centvin.”

“What are you? Thirty, maybe?”

Abn Tunis told Centvin his age. Centvin lowered his sunglasses and looked at Tunis as if seeing him for the first time. “You must know one hell of a plastic surgeon.”

"Simple living, Centvin.”

"You’ve been marked up,” Centvin said, acknowledging Tunis’ broken nose and the scar tissue around his eyebrows. Sunlight glinted off Centvin’s Omega Seamaster as he pointed out the reminders of slow reflexes and bad judgements displayed on Tunis’ face.

"I boxed a bit as a younger man,” Abn Tunis admitted.

"Were you any good?” Selene asked. It had been the first words she spoke to the man.

Tunis looked at her and shrugged. “Depends on whether one measures success based on wins and losses or not.”

"What does that mean?” She asked.

"Boxing is primitive. Atavistic. But one can learn much from the discipline. Winning and losing is meaningless. Where is one’s attention focused? What is one’s intent? Those are questions to consider. All one can do is one’s will. And one’s action will be pure. After that, result is meaningless — divorce yourself from any desired outcome.”

Centvin laughed. “What are you? A fucking hippie cult leader? When do I get to meet HEAVEN? We came here because she requested me.”

Tunis drank his iced tea and smiled pleasantly at Centvin. "So you believe you’re in a simulation, Centvin?”

The man with the raspberry beret’s eyes were occulted by the dark Chopard sunglasses. Vance Centvin had once had a live breakdown on a SpectraNet stream where his faith in the system collapsed. Centvin now realized the answers could never have been found in the system. Not a system built on deception. Centvin knew this now. HEAVEN had appeared at a vulnerable moment and informed Centvin that he was existing in a simulation.

"A kind of simulation, yeah,” Centvin told Tunis while signalling for the check. “We’re all living in a kind of simulation. Now take me to HEAVEN.”

Image: Camera slowly pans back. A grid. A motherboard. It does not seem to end. It goes on seemingly forever. Camera slowly zooms in on a specific spot of the endless grid to examine a particular flurry of energy. Closer. Centvin laying in bed with Selene. She is snoring softly. Centvin can’t sleep. Centvin wonders if he is being conned. Tunis had informed Centvin tersely yet politely that he had a previous engagement but would enjoy meeting the two for breakfast the next morning at the restaurant in Centvin’s hotel and left. Centvin wondered what he’d gotten himself — and Selene — into. A refugee in a foreign land when he was very young, the government of Centvin’s homeland had been seized by dangerous religious zealots and his father had arranged passage for Centvin’s mother and two older brothers as well as the three year old Centvin to a faraway land. Centvin was a pragmatic fellow but could be unexpectedly sentimental at the oddest times. Centvin had often felt like a stranger in a strange land. When Centvin admitted this to Selene she carressed his neck and said: “Silly jester. Everyone feels like a stranger in a strange land.” But Centvin was not convinced. Centvin felt apart. What is this strangeness others call Centvin? Centvin often wondered. What is this strangeness called life?

RESPLENDENT QUETZAL

The next morning Centvin stuffed his face with several pieces of toast and cod roe paste at the hotel restaurant. Abn Tunis was fifteen minutes late and Centvin was hungry so he didn’t wait. Selene ordered a bowl of porridge with strawberries and granola, feeling a bit guilty they hadn’t waited a few minutes longer for Abn Tunis. Centvin finished his coffee, belched softly, and leaned back with a sigh. “I could eat that shit all day long,” Centvin admitted to Selene. Selene agreed he probably could. Centvin was dressed in a loose pair of long lavender gym shorts and a plum-colored tee shirt. He wore no socks with his grape purple sandals. The raspberry beret he usually wore, in honor of his musical hero Prince Rogers Nelson, was laying on the bedroom floor of the hotel, tossed there haphazardly right before a particularly torrid lovemaking session initiated when Selene had practically torn Centvin’s clothes off upon returning from a night walk. Later, when Centvin asked why all the enthusiasm? Selene laughed and said it must be something in the Lidingo air.

"Excuse me,” a lean man of medium height said after approaching Centvin’s table. “Aren’t you Vance Centvin? From SpectraNet?” The man had intense blue eyes with angular, gaunt, somewhat wolfish features and thin lips. His face was dotted with old acne scars giving it a rugged, lived-in look. The man had five seperate scars going down the left side of his face, starting at his hairline and going down to the jawline. It seemed to Centvin an animal of some kind had clawed the man’s face. The stranger looked close to forty and Centvin thought there was something about his chiseled face that was predatory yet haunted. Selene found the man alluring but simultaneously unsettling. The man wore pearl colored chino slacks and a charcoal grey sport-shirt. On his feet were dark tan boat shoes, no socks.

Centvin stared at the man coldly.

“Who are you?” Centvin asked. “I didn’t walk up to your table uninvited.”

The lean man gave Centvin a winning smile, retrieved his wallet from his hip pocket, extracted a card from it and handed the card to Centvin. The card read:

Jackson Ball

Resplendent Quetzal Enterprises

— and nothing else. No phone number, email, address, nothing. It was a beautifully made business card, Centvin thought, with its image of a bird of vivid and iridescent plumage. The bird’s body was mostly green with a blue-green head, contrasting with vibrant red feathers on its breast, belly, and undertail coverts. Centvin couldn’t decide whether the shade of red was crimson or cardinal. Centvin tried to hand the card back to the man.

"Keep it,” Ball said to Centvin.

Centvin put the business card on the table. “What do you want?”

The stranger quickly pulled a chair from an adjoining table and sat across from the couple. “Just to chat for a few minutes. You are Vance Centvin, right? Prince Centvin? The host of a SpectraNet channel with over six million subscribers?”

"No,” Centvin told the man. “I ain’t him. I am Rupert Rapscap. This is my wife, Renata Rapscap. We can’t help you. Go away.”

The stranger laughed pleasantly.

"We are serious.” Selene said icily. “Go away.”

The stranger leaned back in his chair and smiled at Centvin as a kindly teacher would smile at a stupid but earnest student who couldn’t solve a simple algebra problem.

"Centvin, you weren’t born in the US, were you?” the stranger asked. “You arrived there at three years of age,” Ball said, answering his own question.

"You’re wrong,” Centvin said flatly. “I was born there. And I ain’t Centvin. You got me confused with somebody else.”

"I don’t get things confused,” Jackson Ball said.

Centvin moved his hand as if waving away a foul odor from his immediate area. “You did this time. Go away.”

The man pointed at Selene. “You dragged your wife to Lidingo, Centvin? Come to meet the mysterious hacker HEAVEN? She came to sever your heart from the world, right? You are chum to bait a sea monster. You have six million subscribers, Centvin.”

Centvin shook his head. “You got me confused —”

"You used to be a staunch supporter of Quetzalcoatl, Centvin. Mostly all of your audience is pro-Quetzalcoatl. Now that president Tezcatlipoca has dropped out of the race and vice president Jones is Quetzalcoatl’s opponent in the upcoming election, you’ve lost faith in your gut instinct? Quetzalcoatl needs your support now more than ever! I’ve been made aware of your every movement here in Lidingo. Now why would —”

"— with somebody else. I am Rupert Rapscap. From Los Angeles. Born in —”

"— an ex-Quetzalcoatl supporter with six million subscribers to his SpectraNet channel suddenly travel incognito to Lidingo? The answer is HEAVEN. You came to find her. You and your wife —”

"— San Diego. And this is my wife, Renata. Born in Fresno —”

"Hello,” Abn Tunis said. Centvin, Selene and Ball turned to look at Abn Tunis walking towards their table followed by a waitress. Tunis was dressed in a pair of lightweight tan cotton slacks and a loose beige button-down short sleeve shirt with many zippers and pockets attached to it. The waitress provided an extra chair for Tunis. Centvin returned to staring coldly at Ball while Selene nodded pleasantly at Abn Tunis. Jackson Ball smiled warmly and said: “Abn.” Tunis ordered hot tea with a waffle and fresh fruit.

"You two know each other?” Selene asked Abn Tunis incredulously.

Tunis nodded. He didn’t seem happy about the fact.

"Abn, tell your new friends to go home,” Jackson Ball said as if suggesting they hurry to shelter before a bad storm breaks.

"Do it yourself, Jackson.” Tunis replied without looking at him.

"Ball, do me a favor?” Centvin asked, giving Jackson Ball his jester’s smile of irrepressible childish mischief.

"What can I do for you, Centvin?” Ball asked with what seemed like genuine curiosity.

Centvin quickly palmed the salt, pepper and sugar shakers in his hands and stood. He showed them to Ball, palms up. He tossed the black pepper shaker into the air in an arc, using a circular motion. As the shaker hit its peak in the air, Centvin tossed the grey sugar shaker in the air, using the same circular motion. Soon Centvin had the white salt shaker in rotation three feet in the air with the others, rhythm steady, with only an occasional near-miss, which Centvin would catch at the last second with a yowl for comic effect.

"Watch this, asshole.” Centvin told Jackson Ball, Centvin’s eyes on the black, grey and white shakers.

Centvin began tossing the shakers higher in the air. Four feet. Conversations quieted, then stopped. He made the shakers go still higher in the air. Five feet. Centvin’s balance and dexterity were extraordinary. The precision and coordination he displayed while keeping the shakers rotating mesmerized his audience; both the staff and the customers of the restaurant, which had forty three people in it besides Centvin, were frozen in awe. Six feet. Many of their phones were now recording Centvin. Centvin slowed the rhythm and finally stopped. Centvin placed the black and grey shakers down one at a time. When he went to put the salt shaker down, it tipped and rolled off the table. Centvin picked it up and put it on the table, carefully.

"Whoops.” Centvin sat back down on his chair and the restaurant erupted with applause.

Jackson Ball clapped appreciatively with the other onlookers. Ball watched while people came up to briefly chat with Centvin and tell him how well he could keep those shakers going in the air. Selene’s eyes were warm and loving when she looked at her husband; cold and unfriendly when she looked at Jackson Ball. Abn Tunis looked at Ball indifferently, the little he did look in Ball’s direction. When the crowd had dissipated, Jackson Ball stood and lazily extracted several kroner notes from his wallet and placed them under the salt shaker. “Rupert,” the intense blue-eyed man with the panther’s paw scar said to Centvin, “Breakfast is on me.”

"Thanks,” Centvin said. Centvin took the cash from under the salt shaker and counted it doubtfully.

"You’ve got some good moves,” Jackson Ball admitted. “But you’re all alone. Balancing on a tightrope over a crowd of cannibals without a safety net. Realized the system is corrupt beyond repair? Congratulations, Centvin. An intelligent twelve year old could figure that out. So what if Quetzalcoatl is singing his fanbase a lullaby they like? Circling the drain, Centvin. They are circling the drain. So why not let them hear a sweet lullaby that puts them to sleep? Will your career survive your rebuke of Quetzalcoatl, Centvin?

"I ain’t Centvin,” said Centvin.

CINDERELLABATARNA

Centvin, Selene and Abn Tunis rode the Lidingobanan to Gashaga, speaking little on the train. After boarding a Cinderellabatarna, the M/S Gustafsberg VII, Tunis informed Centvin he was finally going to meet HEAVEN. Tunis also informed Centvin he thought he was behaving foolishly.

“Is that so?” Centvin asked.

"Unfortunately, yes. The juggling bit was seen and recorded by dozens of people, Centvin. You’ve been waltzing around Lidingo for days dressed like a court jester. You can’t help but draw attention to yourself.”

Centvin said: “I played at being a nobody on the voyage to Lidingo, Tunis. I didn’t like it.”

"Apparently not.”

“My husband is a somewhat famous man,” Selene informed Abn Tunis. “You cannot become famous without being absurd in some way. He has subscribers from all over the world. He lives his life on his own terms. So do I. Who is Ball and what does he want?”

Abn Tunis laughed. “Selene, you don’t say much but when you do you’re direct.”

"That’s why I married her,” Centvin said. “She asked a pertinent question, Tunis, so why don’t you answer it?”

“Ball is a facilitator.”

"What the fuck does that mean?” Centvin asked.

"Just what I said,” Tunis answered. “He is an interface between them and us.”

"The other part of my pertinent question was what does he want?” Selene reminded Abn Tunis.

"What does a snake want when stalking its prey?” Abn Tunis wondered aloud.

"Holy fucking flying spaghetti monsters!” Centvin said. “Come on, man. Stop talking in riddles.”

Tunis shrugged helplessly. “I don’t have all the answers. I don’t have to know who he is to recognize what he is.”

"Tunis, you give me a good wibe, but you don’t say much,” Centvin told the slim tan man. “I ain’t been conned in a long time. But you just may be conning me right now.”

Tunis gazed calmly back. He held his palms up. “If I am conning you, I am conning myself. Because I have told you the truth, Centvin.”

Centvin humphed. Centvin was a man who usually followed his instincts. He got vibes from people. Wibes, he called them. Centvin found his instincts were usually right but there were a few memorable exceptions. Nobody bats a thousand, V. Centvin told himself. Tunis seemed cool. Centvin found himself trusting the terse Tunis even though he simultaneously fathomed that he did not know the man, really, at all. This irritated Centvin, who thought of himself as a logical man. Centvin wanted things to add up logically before he tentatively jumped to a temporary conclusion. Centvin was also, however, an artist. And his imagination and creative will were more often a compulsion than anything else. V. Centvin made art: he composed music and lyrics and played several instruments on his home-made recordings (his childhood goal was to learn as many instruments as his musical hero Prince Rogers Nelson — he was currently a mere three instruments shy. Centvin’s talent on the instruments he did play was on a spectrum: on some he was merely adequate, on some unlistenable — his trumpet playing was atrocious. He was, however, a fine pianist). Centvin’s skill as a mimic was impressive. Shut off the lights and listen to Centvin imitate Prince and you may, for a while, believe you were listening to the Prince. The purple one himself. Except Centvin couldn’t quite hit the high notes as well as the original; he just didn’t have the range. Centvin could also mimic Freddie Mercury, Michael Jackson, Elvis Presley, David Bowie and a plethora of other famous singers. Some of the impressions were better than others. He did a horrible Finn MacQuarry. Centvin designed video games. His game BAZZAM made him a small fortune. Centvin directed and produced music videos promoting his large catalogue of songs — such as I Suck Ba’al’s Member, an attack on pop musicians Centvin considered commercial sellouts, and No Me Jab, Centvin’s anti-vaccination reggae song done in a barely recognizable Jamaican accent. Combined, they got over 18 million views on SpectraNet. Centvin decided to trust the wibe he got from Abn Tunis.

HEAVEN

Image: The endless motherboard. A grid under a celestial timepiece. Flurries of energy conspire and transpire all across the seemingly never ending grid. Camera slowly zooms in on one tiny distinct flurry of energy taking place on a small island in the Stockholm archipelago. The trio had disembarked from the M/S Gustafsberg VII and advanced through the green grass of the small island. What makes the grass green? Centvin wondered. Centvin remembered stories of his homeland that his mother had told him. Tunis watched a Red-backed Shrike in the air. Selene slapped a horsefly away from Centvin’s ear that Centvin had been unaware of until the slap. Centvin ate some candy he’d bought on the ferry and used the sugar rush to sing “Who Wants to Live Forever?” in a decent imitation of Freddie Mercury. Respectable — except for the range. He couldn’t hit the high notes without cracking. Tunis tried to ignore Centvin’s singing and remembered how, after months of abstinence while training for a match, how soft yet hard, how supple yet lean, a certain lovely lady seemed many years ago for a brief time in Carthage.

The Red-backed Shrike had an area of dark skin exposed around its dark eyes. Selene had noticed it as well and that it seemed to be following them. Centvin was oblivious to the Red-backed Shrike’s existence. The Red-backed Shrike’s wings were black with white patches. It had a grey back and a red rump. Definitely not a crimson rump nor a cardinal red rump, Selene thought. Perhaps a vermillion rump? When the trio came to a home in the woods they stopped and stared. Tunis had seen it before but the sight was new to the Centvins.

"HEAVEN is in there,” Abn Tunis said, pointing to the red house. Centvin, Selene and Tunis would all have agreed, if they’d been asked to affirm, that it was indeed a crimson house.

The hacker was a slender woman not yet forty but well over thirty. She’d been vibrantly beautiful once. Now her beauty was deathly pale, and her face twisted as it contorted in pain. Her once supple body had been reduced to the essentials. She was a branch that had been stripped of all twigs and leaves to become a spear. Her hair was prematurely silver. Her eyes were so light grey one of her friends once said they resembled the color of a raindrop. She was covered up in a thick blanket even though the temperature inside the home was quite warm.

"Hello, Prince Centvin,” HEAVEN said.

CENTVIN — I came a long way to meet you, lady. In the flesh.

HEAVEN — Yes, you did. I am afraid you still haven’t actually. I am not here in the flesh. Did Abn tell you that?

TUNIS — No. This is a hologram, Centvin.

Centvin walked to and then waved his hand through the woman sitting on the rust-colored sofa, snug under her thick wool blanket.

Selene gave Abn Tunis a dark look of intimidation and he intuitively knew he did not want her as an enemy in any way, shape or form.

SELENE — What kind of game are you playing, Tunis?

TUNIS — No game.

Selene spoke to the hologram.

SELENE — What do you want?

HEAVEN — Retribution. I once worked for Anvil Flask. I worked on the HypnoGraft neural interface chip. I was an unwilling test subject. Have you met Jackson Ball?

CENTVIN — Yeah. He’s an asshole.

HEAVEN — Ball has been keeping tabs on me for Flask. He believes I am here in Lidingo.

SELENE — My husband has some kind of faith in you. I don’t know why.
But he does. We have this Jackson Ball person telling us to stay away from you and go back home. I strongly agree with him. We’ve had a wonderful vacation in Lidingo. We travelled across an ocean to see you and you aren’t even really here. Please be very precise in telling us what you want, HEAVEN. And do it quickly before I drag my husband back home whether he likes it or not.

CENTVIN — Yeah.

HEAVEN stood and removed the blanket. Her body was naked and beautiful. She walked to a dresser and selected a kimono and put it on quickly. It covered her to her bare ankles. It was crimson and had several white koi emblazoned on it. The white koi had crimson patches on them. Her appearance naked had been that of a spectre. The pale skin was almost translucent. The silver hair was uncombed and hung freely, curling at the ends. Occasionally her face would contort in a spasm of pain. She sat at a small breakfast nook, somewhere, and opened a large bottle of pills, shook two out onto her palm, and swallowed them without water. Her jaws tensed and her body seemed to stiffen. It passed momentarily and HEAVEN walked back to her sofa and covered herself with her blanket.

HEAVEN — The pills are infused with nanotechnology. Bots. They work to circumvent the HypnoGraft. I am going to tell it my way, Selene, please be patient. The concept of artificial intelligence was introduced by Alan Turing in his paper Computing Machinery and Intelligence in 1950. He proposed the Turing Test as a way to determine if a computer could think like a human being. The first A.I. program was developed in 1956 by Allen Newell and Herbert Simon. Logic Theorist. It was able to prove mathematical theorems using logic and reasoning. The term artificial intelligence was coined by John McCarthy in 1956 at the Dartmouth Conference. Research into artificial intelligence progressed through the decades, and we come to a young, some said brilliant, woman. This woman was innovative in developing vulnerability scanning tools to identify weaknesses in computer systems and networks. This woman used exploitation techniques such as buffer overflows, SQL injections, and cross-site scripting attacks to gain unauthorized access to systems and networks. She was unfortunately caught. Instead of going to prison, she decided to work for some unscrupulous people.

CENTVIN — Was this woman you?

HEAVEN shrugged.

HEAVEN — Looking at that woman from what I am now, it seems like a completely different person.

SELENE — You went to work for unscrupulous people, HEAVEN? Weren’t you breaking into these systems and networks without authorization?

HEAVEN — Of course. And I fattened several offshore accounts with the booty I raided. I plundered corporate accounts like a modern day pirate. I considered myself a pirate, a raider. My identity was never compromised. Then one day Jackson Ball knocked on my door and I discovered my identity had been compromised. You said you have met him, Selene?

SELENE — I’ve met him.

HEAVEN — Then you know the strange effect he has.

SELENE — Yes.

Vance Centvin humphed.

CENTVIN — The only effect I noticed he had was the effect of an asshole.

HEAVEN — That’s because you’re a man. But to a woman . . . I was not even interested in men much, at that point in my life. But Jackson Ball has an utterly amoral aspect to him that is apalling yet also very stimulating.

SELENE — Yes.

Centvin looked at his wife with surprise.

CENTVIN — So now assholes turn you on?

TUNIS — She married you, didn’t she?

Tunis smiled.

CENTVIN — Hey, Tunis, save the jokes for the walk back to the ferry. So what happened between you and this Ball asshole, HEAVEN?

HEAVEN — This is what happened, Centvin:

Image: an impeccable camera scans the miles and miles of seemingly never ending motherboard searching for a particular flurry of energy in a particular quadrant in a seemingly never ending expanse of interacting flurries of energy — lights. Tiny little lights. The camera need only turn the dial to the left to effortlessly explore past. Turn the dial to the right to explore future. To a camera operator, the distinction is irrelevant. Left. A three year old Centvin arrives in a new country. Abn Tunis is in a boxing ring evading unwanted attention in the form of a formidable southpaw from Tozeur. Selene is toddling after her father’s pantleg then grasps it and holds on to it, pleading as her mother lifts her and reminds Selene it is past her bedtime.

And once upon a time a naked woman sits at an oak desk typing on a laptop keyboard. To the left of the desk, a window, open. Outside the window the stars shine like sparkling jewels set against the canvas of the peach, burnt orange and violet sky, emerging one by one as the darkness deepens. The air coming in the room through the open window is cool and clean and suggests the end of the harvest season and the inevitability of winter; it cools the perspiration on the woman’s body in a way that the woman finds pleasurably sensual. The musky scent of fallen leaves damp from the autumn rain and decaying on the ground travel into the room from the earth outside. Suddenly the naked woman’s vision is blocked by two hands covering her eyes.

Dang, her hair smells sweet, Jackson Ball thought. Like a long-suffering sun drenched flower opening its petals in the moonlight to attract nocturnal pollinators. Citlali Gravesend clenched Ball’s wrists and removed his palms, bringing the laptop screen with the data she was in the process of analyzing back into view.

"I’m working, Jackson,” she said.

Ball had recently showered. His hair was still damp. He was dressed except for his shoes. His tie was looped around his collar but was not knotted and each end hung free on either side of his shirt. Ball sat on the bed and started putting on his shoes. Kinetic actions programmed into body memory after much repetition over the years, such as putting on one’s shoes, are usually done without conscious thought. Right foot in shoe. Calf draped over left knee. Pull tongue so it is not bunched and tighten laces gently yet firmly before tying the oxblood cordovan. Citlali had once stopped him when he was tying his shoes and asked him to concentrate on every individual movement. To place his attention on the action. Ball had told her she must be nuts. He was scheming on how to take over the world, and that was what his mind was concentrated on. And if he couldn’t take over the world, he could at least keep his attention placed on being a well paid associate of those who had taken over the world. She had also once called him an amoral thug. Ball had said she was partly correct; he was amoral, but he wasn’t a thug. However, he said, he knew people who liked to hurt other people. They, in fact, chose the profession they did because they liked to hurt people so much. So he merely rented them when required.

"Citlali,” Jackson Ball said as he started on the left shoe, “is a beautiful name. What kind of name is it?”

"My mother majored in anthropology, focusing on Aztec mythology, before switching to corporate law. It’s a Nahuatl name. It means ‘star’ or ‘light’. She thought the name was pretty.”

"Do you?” Jackson Ball asked.

Citlali Gravesend shrugged.

"And the girls with the normal names . . . "

"Right,” Citlali Gravesend said.

" . . . want unusual ones.”

"Sure. However, it gets tiresome explaining the origin of it.”

"I bet,” Jackson Ball said as he stood and pulled the loose tie from around his neck and looped it around the palm of his right hand. He extracted a silver flask from his coat pocket which contained an effective suppressant — a mixture Ball had some folks at the shop synthesize using Dimethoxyethane as a base, opened it, and poured some of its contents on the tie. He recapped the flask and returned it to the coat pocket.

Citlali Gravesend felt little discomfort. When she awoke she was:

Floating.

S.I.M.

Citlali could see through the glass panel. On the other side there was a large room where two people she had never seen before were sitting behind a large console of computer screens. One was a pudgy bearded man who looked about thirty years old. He was pale and wore glasses. The other one was a fiftyish South Asian-looking woman. Citlali thought she looked beautiful.

Citlali could hear Ludwig Van Beethoven’s Opus 73 — The Emperor Concerto, in her ears.

Why am I underwater naked? Citlali thought. There was some kind of apparatus affixed to her head, feeding her oxygen as well as covering her eyes with lenses and earplugs feeding her the divine music. She could feel a kind of euphoria. Like she’d been drugged. Like she’d been given some kind of delicious pain medication before a major surgery.

The Emperor Concerto was composed between 1809 and 1811. The piece was dedicated to Archduke Rudolf, Beethoven’s patron. The music washed over Citlali like a stirring cool breeze on a scorching midsummer noon. Each note danced like a star in the night sky. Each one brighter and more lovely than the last. Citlali was transported to a place beyond her body — beyond time and space. A place where the music was the only thing that mattered.

The S.ynaptic I.solation M.odule was a gleaming monolith of glass and chrome designed to push the boundaries of research into sensory deprivation and manipulation. There was a gentle hum coming from the respirator providing Citlali oxygen but she couldn’t hear that, only Opus 73.

She floated in the warm . . . fluid. Transcendent.

The panel which allowed Citlali to see her two observers suddenly disappeared and Citlali quickly began panicking in the ink black darkness. Then the ceiling and floor and four side panels of the module began glowing soft blue. Then red, then yellow. Then the ceiling panel, the floor panel, and each of the four side panels began alternating colors — first in corresponding intervals of time, then in disjointed intervals, then in a multitude of rhythmic patterns which gave Citlali the sensation she existed inside a prism of crimson, pearl, turquoise, forest, umber, saffron, lavender, wine, cerulean, olive, sepia, mustard, flamingo, storm, coral, cobalt, sapphire, hunter, mocha, moss, lemon, sky, cardinal, sage, cocoa, plum, emerald, banana, maroon, navy, mint, magenta, steel, smoke, caramel, rose, honey, indigo, midnight, avocodo, orchid, walnut, amber, periwinkle, lilac, peacock, scarlet, dove, lime, pine, taupe, tan, amethyst, mahagony, violet, canary, silver and goldenrod.

Opus 73 finished. On the ceiling panel a sharp flawlessly lifelike hologram of a man with a full dark brown beard sitting behind a piano appeared. The man had a scar on the right side of his upper lip and arched eyebrows. His hair was shaggy and unkempt, falling over his forehead and ears. He wore a simple white shirt and a black jacket. The man played hymnal chords on the piano. Then the man looked directly at Citlali with piercing hazel eyes and sang:

When Lucy makes Charlie Brown stumble, feelin’ superiority
’Cause she pulled back that football, and she laughed with childish glee
And when it occurs to good ol’ Charlie that Lucy’s just a flirt and tease
Charlie takes all his hatred and sets it free, sets it free

Set it free, set it free, set it free, set it free,
Trust these words of wisdom, set it free

Citlali recognized the bearded man. Finn MacQuarry. And the song was Set it Free, by the Scarabs. But this version had a different lyric. The original song was about how wise and beautiful it would be to set all your hatred free in submission to a loving higher power but the lyrics took a profound philosophical turn in the version Citlali now listened to — when MacQuarry started singing about Charlie Brown severing Lucy’s head from her body and punting it through the goalposts of Lucy’s severed left and right legs, the beautiful music started changing. Ominous chords and dissonant melodies began replacing the hymnal tones and cadences. MacQuarry, to Citlali’s amazement, transformed into a goblin. The Goblin’s face was a grotesque mask of sharp angles and exaggerated features. Its skin was a sickly shade of green wrinkled leather. It had deep set black eyes gleaming with malice under a heavy ridge of brow and absurdly arching eye brows. MacQuarry - goblin smiled. It had sharp, jagged, putrescent teeth. Then the goblin stopped singing sweetly and began wailing like a banshee.

Citlali squeezed her eyes shut because an overwhelming terror engulfed her. The horrific image disappeared — but the HOWLING continued. The HOWLING.

The howling finally stopped. Citlali opened her eyes to a hologram of Jackson Ball.

Image: A lean man of average height opens the door to the observation deck of the S.I.M. developed by Anvil Flask’s research team of neuroscientists and walks inside. Inside he greets a pudgy bearded bespectacled man and an older sleek attractive woman. The man and woman stand beside the holographic telepresence system which will record Jackson Ball and display the hologram inside the S.I.M. for Citlali Gravesend. The lean man stands in the place he was instructed to and plucks a piece of spearmint flavored chewing gum from his coat pocket, unwraps it, pops it in his mouth, and chews it. The man is dressed in a slate blue metallic knit suit with a dark green tie and wears oxblood cordovans. His tie is loose and the collar of his white shirt is undone. The man crosses his arms and says: “Go.”

BALL — Hey there sunshine. You are a bit thunderstruck, I imagine. You are inside a S.ynaptic I.solation M.odule in a substance called SynchroNectar. A kind of cutting edge tech amniotic fluid. It is able to record your neural activity, relay your vitals, introduce nutrients into your bloodstream, and other fun stuff. Anvil bought off the reporter you contacted with your concerns about the HypnoGraft neural interface chip. The footage of the test subjects you gave her was quite unpleasant material, I agree, but really something that must stay in-house. You signed NDAs. You were screwing the reporter. Hey, she is a beautiful chick, I would love to bang the hell out of her myself. In any event, Anvil decided your betrayal warranted a severe response. And I concurred. After all, Anvil is a trillionaire. Your reporter caved easily. For surprisingly little. Anvil decided to implant a HypnoGraft chip in you, Citlali. And that has already been done. You are in the S.I.M. to test the chip, as well as for the recording of your neural responses to material introduced inside the S.I.M. such as sounds and holograms for dispersal to others implanted with the chip in the future. You are helping us build a library. Complete strangers will feel what you feel, in ways that no other form of communication could allow — from the euphoric to the horrific.

Image: the man in the metallic blue suit uncrosses his arms and drags a chair from nearby and sits down. The man leans back and adjusts his spine so he is comfortable. He chews the gum and stares into nothingness.

BALL — Next to the grandeur of god, sunshine, what we do is insignificant. We pedal our bicycles underwater, moving like fucking snails, in the muddy stream of life. Here: we emerge from a womb, terrified. There: we descend into a grave, terrified. The span between is spent in fear. Fear of what? Of being ourselves. Some people refuse to live this way. They demand to mark their world with their presence. Anvil Flask is such a man. He is more than my employer. He is my friend. Anvil is a man who is going to leave his mark on the world, Citlali. When the swarms of humankind get their HypnoGraft, Anvil will have done what no one else in recorded history has accomplished — he will have united the world. And you betrayed him.

Image: The man in the metallic blue suit says: “Stop.” He waves goodbye to the woman floating in SynchroNectar and walks out of the room without a backward glance, tossing his spent wad of chewing gum in a wastebasket before leaving.

The pudgy bearded man looks at the older woman. The woman stares at Citlali Gravesend, floating.

FLOATING

Image: The endless motherboard. The grid of sweet suffering. A light show. Wavelengths and frequencies. Love. Betrayal. Swirling dust. A rainstorm. Lust. Life. Death. Rebirth. Redeath. A body. A game. Floating. Just 1. Floating.

Citlali Gravesend relived, and the pudgy bearded man and the beautiful woman recorded, Citlali’s first heartbreak — a beloved pet she accidently backed over with her mother’s Saab and killed when a teenager. Citlali still occasionally woke up in a sweat in the middle of the night with the overwhelming guilt crushing her, punching the headboard of the bed until her fist hurt. Citlali’s second heartbreak — a silly boy. Citlali’s third heartbreak — her father’s death. And so on. One by one, the experiences were relived and the pain was recorded for posterity, so someone, somewhere, after having the HypnoGraft neural interface chip implanted, could be malnourished with Citlali Gravesend’s misery.

Hologram. Finn MacQuarry. TELL ME TELL ME TELL ME, COME ON TELL ME THE ANSWER. The goblin again. Again, the HOWLING. Reprieve. Breathing returns to something approaching normal. Then, floating effortlessly in the SynchroNectar of the S.ynaptic I.solation M.odule she saw it — as it slowly undulated laterally towards her . . . a snake. Since childhood, Citlali had been frightened of snakes. Its body was crimson and forest green. Its black eyes were positioned on each side of its head so the snake could see in multiple directions at once and they protruded grotesquely from the snake’s massive triangular head. Its malevolence shone through the SynchroNectar like a light escaping from hell. The snake’s forked tongue tasted the air and detected Citlali’s terror. Its massive flexible mouth opened impossibly wide. The snake’s teeth were long and curved, the fangs impossibly so.

All of Citlali’s fears and nightmares were trotted out, one by one.

The woman raised concerns to the bearded pudgy man. The bearded pudgy man ignored her and moved forward with his zealot’s mission of draining every sensation from the silver haired floating woman — sensations induced by reintroducing every horror, replusion, and dread that Citlali Gravesend had kept hidden her whole life in those basement rooms we rarely enter. The SynchroNectar relayed all the synaptic information from Citlali Gravesend’s desolation and it was being recorded for scrutiny by interested technicians outside of the S.ynaptic I.solation M.odule sitting in comfortable chairs and drinking carbonated beverages and eating Chinese food they’d had delivered.

Alone.

The abyss.

Citlali crossed it.

Alone.

She had no choice.

The evisceration of Citlali Gravesend.

Floating.

What is left?

Void.

And a divine feeling. A feeling of limitless potential. A feeling of something so utterly unique and deliciously clever and sublimely hidden emerging from within.

END OF PART 1