In the previous chapter, Graham Ripa had vague recollections of his most recent memories (he hesitated thinking they were his last memories), especially those involving meeting this hulk of a behemoth named Shango in the wilds of rural Mexico. The next thing he knew, he's coming to in a clinically white room, probably a laboratory. Memories of Perdita Vremsky and her contribution to the cause of Mobot Research came to mind, making him all the more uncomfortable. All this was making Agent Krahang uncomfortable as well: Osiris wanted to skip the science talk and get right to the show...
At the Express Motel, Dr. Kerr discovered his phone wasn't working but Cameron got someone at customer service who could actually fix the problem (it looked like Kerr had accidentally shut the service down into the 'off-grid' mode but he wasn't in New York which was where that call had originated). Anton Vole of the Doylestown Historical Society called to tell him about his little adventure the night before, wondering when Dr. Kerr had arrived to retrieve the copies he'd requested. Only thing was, Dr. Kerr wasn't in Doylestown last night either. Turns out, it was the originals of those letters that were stolen, then: the copies had never been made.
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CHAPTER 15
The agent in the white hazmat suit uncovered the figure stretched out on the gurney and folded up the white sheet. The figure on the gurney wore only an orange t-shirt and ball-cap, with a pair of matching orange Bermuda shorts, dressed for a beach holiday in the middle of summer. He was also barefoot.
Dr. Ifrit al-Zebani, nodding to the agent below, resented the intrusion into his presentation but even this early, the Old Man already was, typically, impatient.
“Let's get this show on the road,” Osiris said.
Without further delays, al-Zebani signaled the agent, as soon as he returned from storing the sheet, it was time to proceed and the others became aware of renewed activity unfolding in the room below. This was a scientific experiment, a presentation of all his... – their hard work's results: without details, it was merely a show.
The man in the white hazmat suit slowly rotated the gurney, the strapped-down figure of Graham Ripa looking lost and pathetic, so his face could look up at the observation window looming over him. Al-Zebani noticed the immediate change in Ripa's expression and guessed the “patient” clearly saw Osiris and no doubt Shango behind him.
“Do not be distracted,” al-Zebani reminded himself, despite the attention of his audience – the Old Man in the Wheelchair – was elsewhere. He resumed with as simple an explanation as possible about Dr. Piltdown's toxins.
The man in the hazmat suit walked slowly around the gurney and released the straps that bound Ripa's wrists and ankles. Weakly, the “patient” tried to move his now-released arms and legs with difficulty. Back at Ripa's side, the man in the hazmat suit reached out to help him sit up, then yanked his arm.
In the whiteness of the room, the t-shirt, shorts, and cap stood out like a noxious stain, exactly what Ripa was; a stain on the Aficionati's pledge of loyalty, a misdirected scourge requiring correction.
That was one of the things they were to test in today's experiment: would the mini-drones, once fully activated, react to the presence of something orange, the only splash of color in the room? It would seem something has suddenly occurred to Agent Ossian and he, blushing, asked to be excused for a few minutes.
Once hauled up into a standing position, Ripa wobbled, unsure in his balance, weak after having been restrained for several days. He took a deep breath and carefully leaned against the gurney for support. The man in the hazmat suit walked around to the other side of the gurney and began to roll it away.
In two seconds, as Ripa's body began to quiver (the proverbial “limp dishrag”), he collapsed, a heap of arms and legs. A door on the right opened, then swallowed the agent with his gurney.
It was an inauspicious moment Ossian chose to return, a small tablet device not there earlier protruding from a lab-coat pocket. The man may be brilliant, but he is still the Moron of Morons. He blushed sheepishly and bobbed his head apologetically, then – of all the stupid things to do – walked in front of Osiris.
Regardless, he considered himself the administrator for this particular part of the project. He'd submitted his proposal, then, to his surprise, it had been approved and he was brought on to supervise its realization. Yes, it had been his responsibility and he'll be responsible for its success, but he'll also be responsible if it failed.
Once the gurney disappeared and they'd seen the last of the man in the hazmat suit, al-Zebani nodded. “Release the Mobots.” Krahang pressed an icon and a door on the left side slid open.
The time for explanation was past; the experiment finally began. Al-Zebani mind raced. “We now go from Science to Performance Art,“ al-Zebani sneered, mixing Krahang's choreography with Dr. Harádov's basic commands and their implementation. “Watch,” al-Zebani the MC continued explaining, “as our human subject interacts with the drones to figure out how to evade them. But more importantly, how the drones (Science) respond to the human's spontaneous reactions, the inanimate interpreting the cognizant to determine how best to respond to unknown variables, thanks to Háradov's brilliant Artificial Intelligence program.”
The choreography, not to belittle Agent Krahang's contribution, was immaterial to the process since Háradov's different levels of code could implement the outcome on its own, but al-Zebani understood these were artists, intellectualized musicians. This addition of an artistic element was not unlike ballet grafted onto a football game or theater superimposed over the news.
The opening tableau – so predictable – reminded al-Zebani of a classic Arabian tale of his childhood, though whether his grandmother had read it to him or he'd seen it in some movie, he couldn't recall. Sinbad, the perpetual hero, came closer to his goal, marrying the princess, when some evil genie sent demons to foil him.
Except here, al-Zebani shrugged, it's not the Sultan's daughter to be rescued, but Osiris' approval to earn and live another day. The essential message behind this particular experiment was one not lost on him.
He was also conscious of wanting to keep an eye on Dr. Harádov, isolated at the opposite end of the window, an expression of concern whether his children would do as he'd taught them. Harádov might think his contribution was the major achievement, but without al-Zebani's animatronic shell to contain it, it was just code.
And what about Ossian, the ludicrous Dr. Dawson? Wasn't his contribution another form of window dressing, a further refinement, an extension? If his code attracts them to the color orange, all well and good.
He couldn't remember where they'd found Dawson – was he already on the staff? Al-Zebani certainly had nothing to do with hiring the man, a pasty-faced, foolish white guy not even suitable for herding sheep. Let's hope he's done what he's supposed to. Whether or not it works, he would fire Ossian tomorrow if he could.
The Asian, al-Zebani muttered with inward scorn, with his fancy commands and idiotic choreographies, all for show, was an odd one. Forced to hire him – Osiris liked him – he never felt comfortable about him. He'd given it up to Krahang being one of those East Asians who think themselves superior to Middle Easterners like himself. In truth, yes, Krahang was a scientist using science for frivolous ends – the project was to kill, not entertain the Unbelievers – but wasn't it more the antipathy shared by the English and the French? And what did he, al-Zebani, have against the killing of Westerners over a quibble about the kind of music they preferred? One dead Infidel was just as dead as any other dead Infidel, yes? It is what they deserved for being so stupidly passionate about something so insignificant as music over two hundred years old!
A reasonably devout Muslim, al-Zebani saw such an antiquarian art as a symbol of weakness especially among people of those other races – cultural converts like Harádov or Krahang – who tried to pass as Westerners. Al-Zebani, despite his coat and tie, considered adopting Western, specifically American lifestyles, turned ones back on the wisdom of the Prophet. He believed, after a successful career of creating mechanized versions of long-dead dinosaurs for American amusement parks, the whole world would be far better off if it stuck to the ways of the Quran.
He had frequently engaged in the argument of Arab superiority when he pointed out the work of Ismail al-Jazari whose Book of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices described how to build automatons in 1206, proving his perfection of such scientific subtleties pre-dated any skills the Westerners might, centuries after Leonardo daVinci, have taken credit for. Al-Jazari's water-serving waitresses, elephant clocks and peacock fountains were not the stuff of ancient tales or the magic of evil wizards. But the techniques existed eight centuries ago and they still stimulated his imagination.
He had also not appreciated Krahang's barely audible response during their initial interview, about which of them was utilizing science to create an art form meant to dazzle the mind and entertain the senses? Al-Zebani sat back, stunned at the affront, especially when Háradov could no longer contain his smirk of satisfaction and laughed aloud.
Watching Ripa stumbling around like a fool as he dodged and weaved to avoid his drones and failed at every turn, whether it was Harádov's code or Krahang's dancing or Ossian's predilection for orange, he realized his drones were right there, ready to terrorize Ripa all over again – and he knew Osiris saw this, too. Whether Osiris had realized the credit was his or not – the concept, the design, the molding of an idea into reality – remained to be seen, the concept of that frequently flouted “No-I-in-TEAM” axiom aside.
He also realized, in addition to his “underlings” – al-Zebani's preferred word for “colleagues” – he must give some credit to Dr. Piltdown who, as a chemist, designed the toxins and created their necessary delivery system. This would be the hardest thing to admit, the very idea such recognition must go to a woman! How decadently Western!
Al-Zebani blushed to think, as she punched keystrokes into her tablet to modify the dosage and increase the victim's mounting pain, this was again his idea: “and you can implement this, how, Dr. Piltdown?” She'd merely taken his idea and, inspired by his vision and his suggestions, figured out how to realize it. “Big deal...”
It had better work, regardless of receiving credit for bringing everybody together to make it work. There was also “The Buck Stops Here.” Next time, that could be him in there instead of Ripa...
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Like a cat playing with the mouse it knows it will eventually kill, Krahang began his Drone Dance quietly and peacefully. Ripa, the unknown variable, reacted as if he'd been programmed into the code. Like the mouse becoming aware some change in the environment was about to kill him, Ripa turned and saw the drones. Quickly, it went from Debussy's idyllic “Prelude to The Afternoon of a Faun” through escalating plateaus as Ripa's steadily increasing fear continuously energized the drones. Their constant interaction set the inevitable outcome in motion.
Operating the controls like a well-seasoned gamesman, Krahang had programmed variables on established patterns the software itself could adapt, to acclimate itself to reading the Subject's responses – “Subject in a ritual fugue requires Counter-Subject.” The Subject does this, the Counter-Subject counters does that: he swerves, drones follow. “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”
Two of the most important things in Krahang's childhood, aside from discovering Western classical music, were Thai temple dances with their intricately sophisticated rituals and the equally intricate and hypnotic rituals of computer games. He wanted to play the cello like his Japanese-born mother, but he was mesmerized by the music of his father's religion. Like any child growing up in the late-'90s, Krahang not only became a champion at playing numerous computer games but also by his mid-teens created several based on those ancient Thai legends and dances.
As a child raised in modern Bangkok, he sat mesmerized as his grandfather danced the ten-headed villain in the khon troupe with the Thai “Ramayana” or taught young women the ancient Temple Dances. His father said he'd grown up “many-sided,” one side facing East, another West, between ancient traditions and the technology of the future.
And now he created art that was the combination of all four. But art, he knew, was creative, its performance, re-creative. However, now his art celebrated destruction, with nothing he could do about it.
His gentle mother also taught him about the Principle of Impermanence, that sense of “transient wistfulness” which is this ambiguous sadness behind the reality of life, perhaps not in this music, not this dance. No, this isn't the moment for mono-no awarë, but it was surely a time for knowing “what we witness cannot last.”
Any piece of European Art music, as Krahang's Western-side believed – indeed, almost any painting or story – involved some increase in tension as the response to anticipation with, typically, some anticipated resolution of that tension. This particular program he'd designed led up to a violent outburst which, thrusting you forward, eventually resolved dramatically, however unexpectedly expected. He called this “The Le Sacre Effect,” courtesy of Stravinsky epic ballet in which a Chosen Victim danced herself to death. He liked having begun with Debussy's innocent Faun: the ending became more shocking.
At this point, Ripa again collapsed but this time appeared to lose consciousness. Al-Zebani told him to momentarily pause the drones. Dr. Piltdown checked her readings. “Yes, Ripa would, in time, regain full consciousness.”
“Good,” and Osiris ordered a light petite dejeuner sur l'herbe be served while they waited. “A bit of sustenance does wonders.”
Two white-coated, third-class engineers brought in trays of crudites including mounds of olives and cheese with drinks made from fermented honey, when, minutes later, Háradov pointed out Ripa was already showing signs of rejuvenation.
“See, I told you it does wonders.” Osiris waved the food away. “Resume.”
Al-Zebani waited until Ripa had made eye contact.
On his nod, Krahang held up his device as if part of a pantomime. “And slowly I turn... on... the switch.” Once again, the drones, coming to life, buzzed ominously before the crescendo began.
Nearly sleepless this past week as the project neared its first round toward implementation, Krahang found himself increasingly tormented by anxieties, focused mainly around the moral conundrum, “what was he using his skills for?” That he had these skills, nothing more than writing computer code to create balletic movements in animated figures, was never questioned. He had gotten this assignment knowing the outcome was to be “employed in violent attacks to protect Civilization from loathsome degenerates.” He supposed it involved whatever people who don't consider themselves “terrorists” called “terrorism.”
Justifiable as they made it seem – he was protecting the very Civilization so important to him and most of his friends – he'd committed himself to violence that went against his sense of that Civilization. When he discovered how widespread this was intended to be, Krahang balked until reminded it was “on behalf of The Mission.”
Unfortunately, to him “The Mission” focused on Art and Culture, the cornerstones that made Civilization the nurturing essential it should be, so in effect, as his mother taught him, we wouldn't die from Reality. All through human history, there was evil in the world, even evil in religion: why could the gods not eliminate Evil?
What allowed him to commit murder for “The Mission” except the increased presence of evil and the very corruption of Civilization? Was it not his responsibility as protector of Civilization to guard against Evil?
Think of it, he's told himself for days now, as merely playing a live-action computer game, an awesomely realistic computer game, one in which the subject – don't call him “The Victim” – is very life-like. Al-Zebani's drones would merely be so many toys in a box if Dr. Haradóv's codes hadn't brought them to full mechanization. Never mind they carry deadly toxins designed by Dr. Piltdown, which Haradóv's codes enabled them to inject directly into “The Subject.” “I'm only making them dance,” Krahang thinks. “They're the ones who're killing him...”
Glancing sideways, he couldn't see Shango who stood a few feet behind Osiris. Who's to say whether he can't read minds? Focus on the drones: The Rite of Spring's final dance concluded the show.
He tapped the next command, mindful at the next performance he could be dancing the role of Graham Ripa, Sacrificial Victim.
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It was a front row seat, Osiris realized, smiling broadly to himself as the others took up their positions behind him. He saw the entire observation room in a single sweep of the eyes. It made him feel like a Roman Emperor back in the Good Old Days, as Christians fought lions at the Circus. He should've had Selket send out for some popcorn, or maybe those chocolate-covered raisins he'd always liked. The waiting was interminable. He glowered at al-Zebani. “Pompous windbag,” he thought, “get on with it, peon...”
Osiris' authority grew over long decades of service to the Aficionati, turning it from humble gatherings of intellectuals arguing arcane points about art into a truly awesome – in the old sense of the word (how he despised the stupidity associated with that word these days) – position of power in the world, power to be feared.
Disloyalty, he'd always known, was the ultimate affront, so every now and then he realized there was nothing better for the overall morale – his morale, naturally – than testing the loyalty of those around him. And so Shango would watch the others, here, and report back to him what he'd observed: were they loyal, these five?
There was nothing worse than having a traitor, especially when you suspected there was some disloyal canker hiding in your midst and it's merely a matter of time before that canker begins to spread.
He did not want to be distracted with the faces of those gathered here, this experiment in power as much as it was to demonstrate the efficacy and efficiency of al-Zebani's new, improved Mobots. Had he thought to mention Shango should record this? Not just the events below, but recording the faces of his minions? Perhaps Shango will have guessed his further responsibilities and seen fit to order the set-up as, clearly, second-nature to his position. He noticed cameras aimed into the observation room, but none observing the observers.
Osiris came ever closer to his goal – World Domination (call it what you will) – but became increasingly concerned there may be others around him like that odious perfidity, Agent Lovíatar, Perdita (“the Bitch”) Vremsky. No, he reminded himself firmly, his already stiff chin stiffening, there was no room in well-run organizations for ineptitude and stupidity.
Which brings us to why we were here today, rooting out yet another example of unwelcome and unacceptable ineptitude and stupidity, this one one of Vremsky's own underlings, Agent Falx, Graham (“the Ass-hole”) Ripa. He had long considered what he'd do once he'd get his hands (metaphorically speaking) on the man who nearly killed him. Osiris was rarely one to joke but he thought how appropriate if, indeed, he could “Ripa him a whole new ass-hole.” He'd found this hilarious; Selket, being a nurse, considered such infantile humor unbecoming.
A variation on the Vremsky Solution, he considered having several pounds of C4 inserted manually into Ripa's rectum (Shango's hands struck him as the most likely, especially since there was no need to waste anesthesia on the process), then setting him loose in a crowded concert controlled by an animatronic radio chip in the brain.
But when al-Zebani's proposed revamping of the Mobot Project had been approved, he saw it also had other benefits to consider, all that violence intended for thousands of oblivious concert-goers focused onto one individual. He watched his dream unfold in the increasing terror on Ripa's face – that smug, arrogant face with its once hateful self-confidence.
Indeed, the thought crossed his mind, he could prolong this for an hour where an explosion was over in a second. What is the point of having power if you can't occasionally enjoy it?
“Agent Nephil?” Osiris calmly interrupted Dr. Piltdown's stern concentration, “do you have sufficient information about the toxins' proportions in your recipe?
“Yes,” she said, looking up from her tablet's readings, “it seems most effective.”
“Only 'seems'? Perhaps you should take a few more readings, then, just to verify them. Best out of three – maybe five?”
“It's not really necessary,” she began, looking back down. “It would only waste what amount of serum each drone can hold.”
“Perhaps you misunderstood me,” he said icily, “but in the interests of science...?”
When Nephil announced apparently that last dose was strong enough to “render the subject unconscious,” Osiris suggested perhaps they should take a break and have lunch sent in. “A delightful petite dejuner sur l'herbe. We could wait for 'the subject,' as it were, to revive and then resume the entertainment from where we'd left off.”
If they – that is, the intelligent, culturally conscious few in this world worth anything (it had, naturally, nothing to do with money entirely but money could be the by-product of intelligence) – if they are to survive, it's important periodically the least desirable of those masses lacking intelligence – essentially, the worthless – should occasionally be weeded out. That was the way it had always been – call it “Natural Selection” if you wanted to – through wars, famines, plagues, cyclical events which always killed the masses, mostly – think of them as “Collateral Damage.”
Isn't that what he's watching, Nature's way of eliminating a pest in the garden (some voracious rodent, say) by attacking it with its natural predator (perhaps a hawk?), something higher up the food chain? No, bees or wasps are not predators in that sense, he knew that; they are merely protecting their homes from intruders. In this case, he saw Ripa and his kind as a particularly nasty, vile, pestilential weed, like kudzu or poison ivy, that could easily overspread and strangle all his hard work if left unchecked.
“Agent Krahang,” once he saw Ripa had finally begun to struggle into consciousness, “there is much a person can find satisfying in the art of gardening: pruning, for instance, or dead-heading old spent flowers. Do not, please, be so quick to get the job done: there is nothing I enjoy more than a good weeding.”
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Silence.
The dread Ripa felt was wrapped in a cocoon of silence. Was he in some kind of sensory deprivation chamber? He wore an orange shirt, shorts, no socks, what felt like a cap. And yet he was freezing from the inside out, his veins frozen by that very dread, unable to get himself warm.
The man in the hazmat suit had rolled away the gurney and left him on the floor, shivering, unable to stand. Was that his last human contact? And he couldn't see who it was.
He tried to get up off the floor, stumbling, and knew this was all planned out for their amusement, every detail. Osiris would play his little games. Ripa hoped they would be short games. Shango was probably videotaping this so Osiris could enjoy it over and over again; who knows, maybe they're even live-streaming it?
“What was that?”
He looked around. From somewhere behind him, he could hear a distant, grating sound. A door slid open and he strained to see anything from within the darkness behind the door. There was nothing to see, not even hope. No sense trying to reach it; he knew it was not an escape.
There it was, the sound of a swarm of bees. He hated bees. They buzzed overhead and – and they started dancing! Then they dove at him but pulled back, feinted again, each time closer.
Ducking away from them, he realized his legs were still wobbly, like warm rubber, and he stumbled about, left and right. He'd thought it would help, dodging the attack, but he couldn't shake them. They started stinging him – in waves! The pain was phenomenal, increasing geometrically on a scale of 1-to-10, soon well above 144. Not bees, no: tiny mechanized monsters – infernal gnats! He was unable to avoid them, so how could he hope to escape? He could barely see but he knew there was no place to hide.
“Hives!” He's breaking out in hives on his face and arms, his back. They're injecting something he's allergic to! Everywhere he feels he's been bitten, stung, is soon covered in huge welts of hives. If the pain doesn't kill him, the constant itching will drive him nuts. He barely had the strength to scratch them.
Another swoop as the buzzing became louder, more threatening. He's stung repeatedly once again, then drops, shaking, immobile, but fully conscious. He still felt the itching, now even more overpowering. But he couldn't move. Was he hit by a taser? He must look like a freshly caught fish, thrown still alive onto a flaming grill.
Not that it mattered, being unable to scream. Nobody could hear him in here, he imagined, unless the room was miked. Not that anyone who could hear him cared: they were all enjoying it.
Had it gone dark? He was convinced he'd gone completely blank: passed out, probably, from the pain if not the fear. Another hit proved too strong for him? Did he go completely unconscious? Unconscious is good. Better not to know what's happening. Now they're regrouping for another attack. Whatever he could do, it wouldn't matter.
Music – where's the music coming from? It's not being piped into the room, is it? No, it's inside his head, isn't it? What is it? “OMG,” he thought, “it's the 1812 Overture! Not that!”
It's deafening, just as it blasted open into that great chorale. Oh, no, it's coming – the cannons... Wait for it!
“God!...”
As it built to the grand brass climax, his brain was well on its way to boiling and would soon explode.
The last thing he saw was the smiling face of Perdita Vremsky.
“God...”
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©2022
by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a
Train
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