Omegasphere (6 page)
Authors: Christopher John Chater
Kurt had been staring out the window, lost in thought. There was a stretch of two-lane highway before him, a strip of pavement in the middle of the desert that seemed to extend endlessly into a hazy horizon. That, and the drone of the car, was causing his mind to wander. A story was beginning to emerge in the landscape; the history of these plains suddenly being revealed in images as clear as if they were happening. Early man was walking in the sweltering sun, a clan of hairy hunched bipeds moving with apelike gaits—and then thousands of years later a tribe of American Indians, riding fiercely yet majestically on horseback with clouds of dust kicked up from the hooves of their horses—and then the covered wagons of the British settlers where women in bonnets walked in step with a caravan. Kurt, able to control these tableaus from history as if they were video recordings, found that he could go as far back as he liked, back to Earth’s beginning, back to when it was a molten ball floating in the darkness of space, back to the flash of light at the beginning of the universe, to a time most believed was the beginning of reality . . . but it wasn’t—everything had existed somewhere else first.
A semi-truck barreled passed them, startling Kurt out of his reverie.
Ursula turned to him and said, “You want me to take a turn? You looked like you were spacing-out a bit.”
Kurt shook his head and said, “She’s right, you know?”
“Who?”
“Cynthia Lopez.”
“About what? That you’re part of an evolutionary jump? I thought as much.”
“No. That whoever is after us is going to catch us, eventually.”
“Oh,” she said.
“I think I should get the truth out before that happens.”
“I disagree,” she said.
“I’m going to introduce it into our noosphere and see what happens.”
“Kurt, I told you that’s a bad idea.”
“I have to. If they catch us, people will never know how this happened to us.”
“For the record, I think that’s a bad idea.”
“Noted,” he said. He changed lanes in the car so he could take the next off ramp.
“You’re going to do it right now?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t a later date be preferable?” Ursula asked, jaw clenched. “I mean, how certain are you that what you’re going to tell people is accurate information?”
“I know what’s happening to me. I know how I became this way; I just can’t prove it yet. I can only put the idea out there. I have to tell someone, and you’re not ready to hear it.”
“Putting out incomplete or misinformation could have incredibly bad results. Please, reconsider.”
“When are you going to trust me?”
Ursula shook her head. “In my book I make examples of how the Internet is introducing ideas into cultures that haven’t even entered the nuclear age. Maybe we can handle pornography and violence and twenty-four hours of gloom and doom in the media, but think about other cultures that aren't ready for it. What I’m saying, Kurt, is that you may know the truth, but the world might not be ready to hear it.”
Kurt pulled into the first gas station he could find. As Ursula reached for the duffle bag with her rainy day money in it, Kurt said, “I got this one.”
Knowing he had no money, she watched him suspiciously as he went into the minimart. He had an animated discussion with the cashier. After a few seconds, the cashier violently reached over the counter to grab at Kurt. Kurt took a few steps back, putting up his hands defensively. Kurt foolishly believed further explanation would ease the man’s temper, but it was only making matters worse. The cashier came out from behind the counter and grabbed two fistfuls of Kurt’s shirt.
“Oh, shit,” Ursula said, quickly but calmly getting out of the car.
The cashier pushed Kurt up against a candy display, a shower of candy bars and gum packages raining down onto the tiled floor. Kurt was dragged through the front door by the shirt, causing him to trip on his own feet on the way. In an effort to stay vertical, Kurt grabbed for the cashier’s work vest, but ended up pulling him down with him.
From the concrete, Kurt looked up to find Ursula’s disapproving expression looming over him. “Maybe you were right. People may not be ready for the truth.”
“The Jackson residence,” Kurt said.
An hour’s drive from Nashville got them to this white farm house in slight disrepair. Several acres of land were in front of and behind the house, but on either side were wooded areas thick with trees.
Kurt and Ursula went to the door and knocked. After a moment with no answer, Kurt stepped off the porch and went to peer inside a window on the side of the house. “Looks abandoned.”
“Another genius lost to the government,” Ursula said.
“I wonder if any of the neighbors saw anything.” Kurt noticed a little girl spying on them from behind a tree. “We came all this way, might as well ask around.” As Kurt walked toward the girl, another child bolted out from behind a different tree and took off into the woods.
“Hello there,” Kurt said to her. “Where’s your friend going?”
The girl was about twelve years old, had her hair in pigtails, and was wearing worn jeans and a peach colored t-shirt with a glittered rainbow on the front.
“Did you know the family that lived in that house?” Kurt asked, pointing.
The girl nodded.
“Do you know what happened to them?”
“They’re gone,” the girl said.
Kurt kneeled to face her. “Did men come for them? Men in suits with guns?”
“Yes, two days ago,” the girl said.
“Dana! Come here!” A man shouted, emerging from the trees. The other girl trailed closely behind him, using him as a shield.
Dana did as instructed, running to the man.
Kurt said, “Hello. My name’s Kurt Robbins. I’m looking for Tina Jackson. Do you know where we can find her?”
“She’s gone,” the man said, “I don’t know where.” He took the little girls by their hands and turned to walk away.
“Did someone come for her?” Kurt asked.
The man stopped, and then turned to face Kurt. The girls stayed at his side, holding his hand. “Why are you looking for her?”
“Miss Jackson wrote a book and submitted it to our publishing house. We wanted to talk to her about it,” Ursula said.
The man didn’t reply.
“Did someone come looking for her?” Ursula asked.
Again, no reply.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding. The sooner we can talk to her, the faster we can clear this up,” Ursula said.
“Misunderstanding, huh?” the man said.
“Yes, a misunderstanding,” Kurt said. “After all, it was Dana who wrote that book. Wasn’t it?”
The shocked and guilty expression from the child told Kurt his insight was correct. The man scanned the area with slight paranoia before saying, “Come this way.”
The man’s house was just beyond the trees, a few acres away. His name was Everest. The two girls were Laura and Dana.
Kurt and Ursula were invited to sit in the living room, the girls went upstairs.
Everest said, “Dana lived next door with her aunt Tina. A lot of people don’t know, but Dana’s real mother is in prison. Drugs or something.”
“That little girl was the author of the book?” Ursula asked.
“Yeah. Dana’s really smart. At least she is now,” Everest said. “A few days ago some men showed up at Dana’s house looking for the writer of a manuscript. They assumed Dana’s Aunt Tina had written it, so they took her away. They didn’t know that Dana was over here playing with Laura. They probably didn’t even know that Dana was staying with her while her mom’s in prison.”
“Before these men came and took Tina away, had Dana been acting strangely?” Ursula asked.
“Yes,” Everest said. “She wasn’t always so smart. In fact, she used to get worse grades than Laura.”
Kurt walked over to a lamp. He put a finger to his lips: shh. He looked under the shade. Next, he checked behind a picture frame. “I don’t see anything,” Kurt said. “In the last few weeks, have you felt like you’re being watched?”
Everest shook his head.
“I’m not sure Dana’s safe here,” Kurt said.
“You think they’ll come for her?”
“When they test Tina, they’ll know something’s not right,” Kurt said.
Ursula said, “It’s only a matter a time before they find out Tina is the guardian for the child.”
“We love Dana, but I don’t know what I can do for her. She’s so smart. We can’t keep up. Is she sick?” Everest asked.
“She’s not sick. There’s nothing wrong with her,” Kurt said.
The distant sound of a helicopter suddenly became audible.
“Damn it!” Kurt said. “They found us.”
“What’s going on?” Everest asked.
The helicopter was getting closer. The windows started rattling.
The girls came downstairs and ran to Everest.
“Do you have a backdoor?” Kurt asked.
“This way,” Everest said.
“Where are we going to go, Kurt?” Ursula asked. “We can’t run forever.”
“I have more than one gun,” Everest said. “We can fight.”
“I’ll get them,” Dana said, running over to the closet. She opened the door to reveal a small safe and some hanging coats. She reached through the coats, retrieved a shotgun, pulled back the pump action, and looked into the chamber. It was empty. She carefully set the shotgun on the floor. She knelt down and began to turn the safe dial, and after a few quick turns, she had the door open. Inside there was a handgun and several boxes of ammunition, both for the .45 and the shotgun. She popped open the shotgun shell box and began feeding them into the gun one at a time. When she was finished, she took out the .45. She pulled back the slide to make sure it was empty, then she ejected the magazine, opened the box of ammo, and began stuffing it with rounds. When it was fully loaded, she slammed it back up into the gun, racked the slide, and put on the safety. She carefully brought the guns over to Everest, making sure not to point the muzzles at him or anyone else.
Everest was in shock. “How did you know how to do that?”
She shrugged.
“There’s no reason for bloodshed,” Kurt said. “I’ll turn myself in. Just get Dana out of here.”
Kurt peered out the window. The helicopter was landing on the property.
“Everyone, get away from the windows,” Kurt said.
Everest kicked over the dining room table. He and the girls ducked behind it.
Kurt peered through the window. There were two men inside the helicopter. One of them was getting out, a bullhorn in one hand.
“Kurt Robbins. This is Richard Bock. Please come out so we can talk.”
Kurt could barely fathom Richard Bock in this setting. They were so far from New York, from the literary society. What was he doing here?
Bock said, “You’re going to have to trust me. Come out and I’ll explain what’s been happening to you.”
“I’ll be right back,” Kurt said. He opened the front door and went out onto the porch.
Bock hurried up to him, stopping just before the stairs that led to the porch.
“How did you find us?” Kurt asked.
“Police scanner,” Bock said. “They’re coming for you and the little girl. We only have a few minutes to get you out of here.”
“Who’s coming for us?” Kurt said.
“Get the girl and I’ll explain on the way.”
“On the way to where?”
“They’re taking people, Kurt. They’re holding them unlawfully. No representation, no Miranda rights, no habeas corpus.”
“Where are you going to take us?” Kurt asked. He searched his face. There was nothing in the famous features to indicate a hint of duplicity.
“My private island. That’s where the others are.”
Ursula, Dana, and Kurt were flown to Richard Bock’s private island off the coast of Nova Scotia. He told them that he had bought the island from a Canadian celebrity who had been building a retreat on it, but had gone bankrupt before finishing. Bock had spent the last few years leveling the luxury-laden effort and replacing it with self-sustaining technology. The main house, where he lived with his servants and security staff, was a geodesic dome, and surrounding it were enough dome-shaped bungalows to house hundreds of visitors. Each of them was equipped with its own solar panels, and additional power was wrought from the ocean currents and the wind. There was a small farm on the far end of the island as well as an old cliff house, and plenty of emergency rations were stored in underground bunkers. The island had a desalinization plant that made sea water drinkable. Bock said that, though the mainland was only forty miles away, they shouldn’t need anything from it. Ever.
While still in the air, Bock asked them to pick a plot where they’d like their dome home to be built. His staff could have it up in a matter of hours. Ursula pointed to a plot of land that was hidden in a grove of trees, but was still close to the shore. Kurt had requested his be made close to hers. He noticed that Bock was a little surprised they didn’t want to stay in the same bungalow—maybe pleasantly surprised?
The helicopter landed in a field and two of Bock’s employees greeted them warmly. Bock said that there were currently more than forty infected people living in the community, but to Kurt the place looked deserted. Where were they?
Finally a pale-faced child ran out from a bungalow. While she took Dana off to go play, Bock escorted Kurt and Ursula into the main house.
In the living room, Bock’s employees served them tea and finger sandwiches. Bock sat in a club chair with a view of the ocean behind him. Kurt and Ursula sat on a couch.
Kurt had seen pictures and posters of Bock in the Lor Publishing office for years, had even seen him in person once or twice, and to Kurt he had always looked like the movie star version of a university professor: erudite, handsome in a studious way, always with disheveled hair, wearing tweed jackets and denim jeans. Publishers loved his magnetic charm. Whenever he was in the office, the mood among the workers changed. The murmuring of his arrival filled the cubicles, the female secretaries checked their makeup, the assistants went out of their way to get a look at him. Other than Miles, very few of the staff got to meet him. Despite his fame, he was a mysterious figure.
Even Kurt’s enhanced attempts weren’t allowing him to gain any insight into Bock’s true personality. Was there anything beneath the charisma?—he could glean no more from this persona than the cardboard cutout in the Lor lobby. No good, no bad—nothing.
“A few months ago I was working on my latest novel,” Bock said, sipping tea. “Then, out of nowhere, I got a new idea. Usually when that happens, I just put the new idea in a notebook and then go back to the idea I’m working on. But in this case, I felt an overwhelming compulsion to keep working on the new idea. You’re a writer, Kurt, I’m sure you know what I mean. I couldn’t stop. After two months, I was done. I submitted it to Miles and he loved it. Miles then called me back a few days later and said that a book had been submitted to him by someone in Boston, a book exactly like mine. Then another one came in from Florida, another one from California, and then one from one of his assistant editors.”
“Have you heard from Miles? Is he here?” Kurt asked.
Bock shook his head.
“What happened next?” Ursula asked.
“I assumed someone stole my manuscript and put it on the Internet. I have a lot of fans, many of whom haven’t exactly respected my privacy. They’ve dug through my trash, tried to hack my computer, pinged my phone calls. When I used to live in the city, some of my admirers used to follow me while I ran errands. I rarely go on the Internet anymore for fear of being hacked. When Miles told me there were other books exactly like mine, I figured someone on my staff had betrayed me—what other explanation could there be? I knew I hadn’t stolen it from anyone. It was my idea. Or so I thought.”
“Then things started happening to you,” Kurt said.
“That’s right,” Bock said. “A week or so after I finished the book, my mind started working differently than it had before. I was getting smarter. My wife, Carol, was scared to death.”
“Do you have a copy of the manuscript?” Kurt asked.
“Miles had my only copy of it. My understanding is that the governments of the world have united to confiscate and destroy every copy they can get their hands on. Even the copies published on the Internet have been found by governmental spider bots and destroyed as soon as they were uploaded.”
“Are you saying that no one has a copy, anywhere?” Ursula asked.
“My sources within the government assure me that most, if not all of them, have been confiscated and destroyed,” he said, grinning.
Kurt’s heart sank.
“But couldn’t someone just write it again from memory?” Ursula asked.
“I couldn’t,” Bock admitted, “I tried, just to see if I could, but I couldn’t. No idea why.”
“He’s right. I tried myself, but I couldn’t do it either,” Kurt said. “There’s something special about how the words are arranged. It’s not just the story. It’s hard to explain.”
“The government is treating it like chemical warfare—like a terrorist attack. They’re either putting us in quarantine or in isolation,” Bock said.
“Where are they keeping everyone?” Ursula asked.
“I’ve heard various reports: Guantanamo Bay, PHPR quarantine centers in various cities—I’ve even heard they’re putting them in abandoned prisons.”
“They won’t kill them, will they?” Ursula asked.
Bock’s face went white. “No, they’re not killing them. There’s no reason to. The infected are dying. They’re now looking for a way to cure them.”
“Dying?” Ursula asked. “Why are they dying?”
“You don’t know? No one told you?”
Ursula shook her head. Her body began to tremble with fear.
Bock sighed heavily and said, “For some of us, the virus has been fatal. That’s why the island looks deserted. Those who have survived are bedridden because of the illness.”
Ursula gasped quietly, and then her head fell sadly.
Kurt was calm despite the news. He put his hand affectionately on Ursula’s back.
Bock sat forward in his chair and said fervently, “I have my best people working on a cure. Unfortunately I had to bring in doctors and scientists that haven’t been infected, because I fear the infection will make all of us sick sooner or later. I’m hopeful, despite the fact that we’ve lost nearly half our people. Tell me, have either of you had the fever yet?”
“Ursula is not infected,” Kurt clarified.
Bock’s mind was working overtime behind widened eyes. “She’s not infected?”
“No,” she said with heavy eyes.
“Well, that’s lucky,” Bock said dryly. He stood up and went over to a wet bar. He poured two glasses of water, took one to Ursula and the other to Kurt. “Some have made it as long as a month after the fever, others just a week. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to why some survive longer than others.”
Ursula sighed sadly and asked, “What happens to them? What are the symptoms?”
“Starts off with a fever, then there’s seemingly a complete recovery. A week or so later another fever, this time more serious. There’s swelling of the brain, resulting in hallucinations—horrible hallucinations, then mania, coma, and shortly after that, death. Evidently, there’s a price for our increased intelligence. That’s why I’ve brought everyone here. My staff is working tirelessly on finding a cure.”
“Does the government know we’re here?” Kurt asked.
“No. I’ve made it very difficult for them to find us. I haven’t had the fever yet, but if I do, I prefer not to live out my last days in a quarantined facility. I also believe we are our own best chance at finding a cure, given our superior intelligence. There’s no doubt in my mind that we will eventually find an antidote, we just need to survive long enough to find it.” Bock smirked proudly. “We’re much smarter than normal humans realize. They’ll be lucky if we don’t survive. They could hardly compete.”
“How have you kept them from finding you?” Ursula asked.
“We have an agreement with them for now, but we’re in the process of building an impenetrable shield that will encompass the island. Should we find a cure, we’re going to need it. I don’t know how the governments of the world will feel about a race of advance humans living unchecked on an island.”
Ursula was on the verge of laughing. “A shield? Are you serious?”
“He’s serious,” Kurt chimed in.
“Despite the illness, many wondrous things have happened here. Everyday breakthroughs are being made.”
“So why can’t you cure yourselves?” Ursula asked more condescendingly than she had intended.
“There are things that are even outside of our ability,” Bock said.
“How did this happen? Where did the virus come from?” Ursula asked.
“The manuscript we wrote was inspired by a strain of virulent media. Our brains aren’t designed for the omniscient media modern society endures. We’re now seeing, like some of the food we’ve been digesting for the last fifty years, that there are consequences to what we put in our bodies and minds. Diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure—well, now we can add memetic disorders to the list.”
“I knew it,” Ursula said under her breath.
Bock nodded and said, “My team has been working on a way to begin sterilizing the noosphere so this doesn’t happen again. We’re going to put an end to the world’s social media, as well as television, radio, and the Internet. We’re going to cleanse the minds of men.”