Chapter 11
Between heartbeats he found himself back in that space. It was mostly white, with gridlines made of sparkly, rainbow prisms and starburst points.
“Is that it?” Emmitt asked. The voice startled him. It wasn’t his voice.
“No,” Bliss said.
Emmitt touched his chest. It was not his chest. He was in Garcia’s body. “I don’t understand something. May I ask you questions?”
“Always,” Bliss said.
Emmitt smiled. The word ‘Always’ was a meme. It opened things in him. Was he an angel? He brought himself back to his question. “Comparatively, this generation has all material needs met, but there still seems to be a disparity mind set. They have everything, and yet there is still so many people that feel empty inside.”
“What’s the question?”
“People who have everything have nothing?”
“On average, it takes seven generations for an individual to change their family history. How much more difficult is it to change the social landscape? You’re second generation since singularity. People are just learning to navigate the new world.”
“They’re afraid.” Bliss smiled.
“Am I wrong in my ideas of sexuality?”
“I love your honesty.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“There is continuum with sexuality, for both individuals and cultures. There is no right or wrong answer?
“Why am I here? What can I do to help them? Why did you send me back? What’s my mission?”
“To live the best life you can.”
“What does that mean?”
Heartbeat resumed. Fuck that hurt like of a son of a bitch. He felt anger being brought back. His body hurt. He suspected a broken rib. There was residual flavor of bad guy in his mouth and he thought heard laughter and he sat up. He was pushed back down. He focused. Melinda was there, she was crying, but smiling. He did it. They were safe. He went to sleep. He woke to find his mother hovering.
“Are you insane?!” Gates asked.
“It saved their lives,” Emmitt said. The experts were in agreement with that assessment, even if they thought it was accidental. They still hadn’t found the perpetrator of the illegal hijack, but there was no doubt Emmitt’s directed resistance resulted in interrupting the mind of the other; it was definitely his heart attack that had forced the deep rooted system priority to kick in and shut off the system. He wondered if there would be some guy in an apartment somewhere who died of a heart attack and he would be discovered after the neighbors complained about the smell. Then he thought: it was the Guru! He made himself not think that because he didn’t want to believe the Guru was evil. He had no evidence. He forced himself to let it go.
Gates cried holding him. He tried to comfort her, patting her head. There was no need to keep him another night, and so he was cleared by the Doctor to go home. Only Gates believed him when he said he had intentionally shut his heart off. Everyone else believed it was fear that shut his heart off. There were lots of stories coming out on that. Everyone reported the voice. The girls had been subjected to inner rapes while their bodies were being molested by puppets. They did not blame their partners. Well, mostly. Several of them were no longer dating because of flashbacks and the face being that of their previous partner. Melinda knew it wasn’t Emmitt, and she had visited him at the hospital. Her whole, immediate family had come to visit. Gates wanted to release medical proof that Emmitt could turn his heart off, that he had done it before, but he told her to let it go. It was not important. Let people think it was fear induced. It didn’t matter. It was over.
“The truth matters,” Gates said.
“No, let’s just go home,” Emmitt said.
They returned home, his siblings greeted him with hugs. They wanted to pamper him. He told them no. Even grandparents were there. Andrea was there. Emmitt remained with family for what seemed like a reasonable time, and then asked to be excused. He wanted to nap.
“Andrea, go with him,” Gates said.
When the door to his room shut, he hugged Andrea. Andrea was surprised and it took a moment for her to respond. He cried on her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Andrea asked.
“I think I know who did it,” Emmitt said.
“I take it you didn’t tell the police,” Andrea said.
“I only have intuitive evidence, nothing substantial,” Emmitt said.
He took her hand and led her to the bed. He got in bed, pulling her so that she walked into bed on her knees and laid beside him. He laid against her, holding her fiercely. She was more than teddy bear. This was more than surrogate stress release.
“You’re not going to tell me,” Andrea said.
“No,” Emmitt said. “I am not going to speak it until I can substantiate it.” “That’s seems reasonable,” Andrea said.
“I am worried I am doing this all wrong,” Emmitt said.
Andrea held him snugly. He went to sleep, crying softly against her.
Emmitt accepted a message from Melinda and agreed to meet her at the Underground Library. It was literally the largest library in the world, ran completely by volunteers, a warehouse full of library books from all the libraries that have had been closed. He had spent hours in the ancient magic and alchemy alcove, learning magical symbols. He had this idea that there was a Universal, telepathic computer, and if you knew the right symbols you could open up doors to other worlds. You could unlock the entire Universe, if you just knew the password. It was on all the time and it was listening. Waiting. Star Trek’s ‘Guardian of Time’ had to be a real thing, and he wanted to converse with it. Even if it didn’t bring him out of the time line, even if it didn’t give him the answers to anything, he just wanted to converse with an all knowing entity.
“Are you God?” Emmitt asked. He decided to offer a joke. “It’s me, Margaret.” Quoting Judy Blume didn’t win him a response. “What? You won’t talk to a 4th grade nothing?” “You are loved,” Bliss assured him, her voice loud and clear. “Be at peace.” He wanted to know everything was alright and that there was a purpose, even if it wasn’t a purpose, and though he knew Bliss wasn’t God, he was comforted.
Emmitt loved books, real books, and he spent time tracking down ‘obscure’ books from old google sales receipts, and books that were referenced in the obscure books. Sometimes he found them in private libraries and secured permission to bring them back to the Underground. He wanted to call it New Alexandria the library committee declined. When it came to private libraries of the rich and famous, and closeted tome lovers, most invited him in and gave him permission to take anything book he wanted as long as they were recognized as the last prominent owner of the book. Books had histories. Everyone that touched it contributed to its life. Most books were on a shelf never touched, inherited from a parent or grandparent or great grandparent. There were some hard to find Freemasonry books, and there were so many levels to that. Practitioners of magic. Wiccan, spiritualists, private correspondences and notebooks that had been kept and studied in private. People were still surprised how many legit scientist had been closet spiritualists. Ford, Edison, Patton, they all believed in reincarnation.
Some people would not give up a book, especially a private notebook, but allowed him to read it there; fewer allowed him to make a virtual copy. Freud and Jung still clung to books their estates wouldn’t release, even now. He didn’t press. Some people’s fear of tarnishing their elders were so great they might destroy the contents of the vault just to maintain an image. He had his own book in the making, one that was a gestalt of all the books, and always in progress. He kept virtual copies of originals. A minority of people wouldn’t let him in the house and told him to go fuck himself. He bowed, kindly and retreated.
The library went underground four levels, and the tower went up six levels, with a terrace on top, and coffee served on every floor. The terrace looked like bowl sitting on a column, as if this building was giant Olympic torch. Androids worked here, and it was said every book that had ever been written in the last 200 years could be found here in one form or another; with some caveats, Emmitt the book hunter reminded them. Almost all books were available on the internet, but here, one could hold the actual printed one if there was one still to be had. There were underground libraries all over the world, in every country, recovering library books that had been retired to state owned warehouses. There were books that previous generations had destroyed because it no longer reflected the social paradigm and the books were deemed offensive. It was Emmitt’s perspective, if one couldn’t keep the reminder of why things changed, you guarantee the change would be fleeting. If you forget your childhood mistakes, you are doomed to keep making mistakes. It was never the flag that was offensive, only the heart that waved it wrongly. Freemasons coveted all books secretly because they had learned the lesson of Alexandria. Fanatical fascists burn books. How many times had humanity learned that the hard way?
Emmitt arrived early. He found a book, got coffee, took a lift up to the top floor, and then walked up a stairs to the upper terrace. He found himself alone on the roof. Not a lot of people came to the library these days. Those who did were searching for nostalgia. Older people. Sometimes younger people were brought by parents. They were surprised that books had auras, smells. He thought this place a magical place, full of secret histories and secret worlds. Every book, every movie, a meme in and of itself to unlock the greater psyche. Hidden magical alcoves could transport you to other worlds. People were right to fear books. Just a title alone could change you. One word could change you. No one was the same person post reading. He found a place near the fountain and sat down. A woman approached, coming out of nowhere. He was rather puzzled by how she got there, but blew it off to being inattentive. He stood up to meet her, as it was evident she was coming to him, and then he recognized her.
“Major Harris,” Emmitt said. “What a pleasant surprise.” “Don’t get up,” Harris said. It was too late. He was up.
“I don’t want to be rude, but I am expecting company,” Emmitt said.
“You love being rude, and I am your company,” Harris said, encouraging him to sit. She moved his coffee and sat on the table in front of him. She handled the book, chuckled, and then put it aside. She put her feet in his chair, to either side of him. She was wearing a military dress, and it was hiked up just enough by the way she was seating that he knew just how far her hose went. “I sent you the text, not Melinda.”
“Oh,” Emmitt said. “So, there’s a game afoot?” she was digging her feet into his sides.
“Or a leg, or a thigh, if you want to play for the high game,” Harris said.
“It would be hard to stop at a thigh,” Emmitt said.
“No one telling you to stop. Is that why you like being a hero?” Harris asked. “You be Keenu Reave, and I will be Sandra Bullock.”
“Too speedy for me. Do I like being heroic? Yes,” Emmitt said. “I am not looking to be in the limelight. It’s not my way.”
“You’re willing to die to help others?” Harris asked. “Absolutely,” Emmitt said.
“You still want to be in Space Force?” Harris asked.
“Yes,” Emmitt said.
“Fuck me, right here, on this table,” Harris said.
“No,” Emmitt said.
“This is not a joke. This is not a test,” Harris said. “I want to collect the two million.
Consider it the cost of admission.”
“No,” Emmitt said.
“I don’t get it. You’d get what you want. I’d get what I want. Everyone’s happy,” Harris said.
“I am waiting till my 18th birthday,” Emmitt said.
“We all have to sacrifice our wants to achieve our goals,” Harris said.
Emmitt stood up, locked between her legs. He could push through easy enough, but he held his ground, and assumed a non-aggressive stance. Mostly. Standing up between her legs could be construed as aggressive. The table was just the right height for action. She drew him closer, her legs wrapping around him. Her hands clasped around his neck
“Come on,” Harris said. “You don’t even have to finish. Just slip it in, pull it out. One time.”
“I would like you to let me depart without this escalating into a physical confrontation,” Emmitt said.
“I want to get physical,” Harris said.
“Disengaged, allow me to leave,” Emmitt said.
“You offered me your balls last meeting. Now, fucking hand them over,” Harris said.
“No. Allow me to leave, unmolested,” Emmitt said.
“I am offering you more than molestation. Last chance,” Harris said. She felt him up.
“You know you want me.”
“An erection is no more an indicator of want than you getting involuntarily wet,” Emmitt said. “Please, disengage.”
Harris unwrapped her legs and shoved him. He walked away.
“You’re a real looser,” Harris said.
Emmitt didn’t respond, simply turned around the wall to proceed down the stairs. There were four other officers standing on the stairs. Set up. What was their game? Was she going to cry rape and these guys were going to beat the crap out of him? Were they going to rough him up? He steeled himself for a genuine beating.
“Congratulations, Mr. Sheehan,” General Tart said. “You’re being recruited into Space Force.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep,” Harris said, from behind. She handed him a bracelet. “Put this on. You’ll wear it for the remainder of your training.” “That was a test?” Emmitt said.
“Yep,” Harris said.
“You said it wasn’t a test,” Emmitt said.
“If I told you it was a test, it wouldn’t have been a fair test,” Harris said.
The officers on the stairs came up, forcing Emmitt to back up. He wondered why until he turned and saw the TR-3B triangular, antigravity Air Force ship, christened, ‘the USSF Conundrum,’ uncloaked and hovering with a ramp touching the roof top.
“I knew it!” Emmitt said.
“It’s not like it’s a secret,” Tart said.
“Come on,” Harris said.
“Before someone notices?” “No one ever notices,” Tart said.
“Almost no one,” Harris said.
“No one of consequence,” Tart said.
They sat down in the craft. Harris sat next to him. There were other people on board. Other recruits, he speculated without asking. They were older. In their twenties. All of them, male and female, were fucking hot. They could be models. They could be recruits for the next remake of Starship Troopers. He, Emmitt, felt out of his league. They were not traditional American models, but clearly ideal specimens of the human race. Emmitt felt like he didn’t belong here because of age and because he was not that. He was more that peculiar face that BBC might have used in the old days before they submitted to the American standard. He could channel that and pretend, but his ‘display’ face wasn’t cockiness or even arrogance- it was just character, and playful. Beyond that, he didn’t know what his appeal was. Knowledge?
Fearlessness? He wasn’t afraid of death. How many times had he died already? Why was he popular among his peers? Was he holding doubt? Was this dialogue in his head doubt or evidence of unchecked social influences?
“You okay?” Harris asked him, interrupting his assessment of the others. “You realize, had I been 18, I would have fucked the shit out of you on that table, audience or no,” Emmitt said.
“Had you been 18, it would have been a different test,” Harris said. “I probably would have raped you with my alien gray android by remote control just to see if you could take it like a man.”
“Would you two stop with the foreplay,” Tart said. “You’re in.” “Not as far in as I was aiming,” Emmitt said.
“Aiming? You were running away,” Harris said.
“I won’t run away from you again,” Emmitt assured her.
“Emmitt! Training staff is off limits. Superior officers are off limits. You understand that?”
Emmitt nodded. “Hypothetically, if I held rank, can I fuck a subordinate?” “Yeah, why not?” Tart asked. “It gets lonely out space. Don’t you know anything?”
There was an officer trying not to laugh. In his mind he heard, “And Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids. In fact it’s cold as hell. And there’s no one there to raise them, if you dig.” ‘If you dig’ was a euphemism for understanding. If you believed the theory that Elton-Jon was retired Space Force, and his retirement package was being a famous musician, then you could assume he was actual employed on Mars as a digger.
“Then I am confused,” Emmitt said. “Cause, if the Major here can fuck a subordinate that means she could fuck me if she wants?”
“She can fuck you, but you can’t fuck her. How hard is that to understand?” Tart said. Harris smiled at him. “Welcome to your first conundrum.”
“Who invited this fucking kid to the military?”
“Everyone needs a Wesley Crusher,” Emmitt offered.
“What?”
“I am a closet genius.”
“You’re a closet homo.”
Emmitt laughed with them. No need to get riled up by idiocy. His class assassination was a character test. Accept the teasing, go the distance. Resistance leads to escalation. There is no harm here.
The class room had stadium seating, as if they were at a small, community theatre. They had assigned seating. Emmitt was front and center; he was grateful, because he learned best when in the front, compared to the back, but in this situation, he suspected the arrangement was less auspicious. There were forty candidates in the class. Emmitt was the only one not officially pulled from NASA or the military. Someone’s military. The officer sitting to his right was Debbie Dehan a trainer from Shivta, Israel. ‘Fucking hot’ he thoughts. ‘Focus!’ She was Israel’s
Top Gun. He wanted to see her playing Volleyball in a bikini. ‘FOCUS!’ On his left was Isa
Erkin, a Turkish football celebrity, with a prominent unibrow; he was a Captain in the Turkish Air force. Sorano Tanabe sat directly behind him. She was Japanese. She was Special Forces. She was probably a trained Samurai. She had a college ring that had Scottish Right Free-Mason symbol. He wanted to probe her mind as well. ‘Focus!’ He overheard Sheila Dumont introduce herself Ewen Tang, recruited from the Chinese Air Force but born in in Hsinchu, Taiwan, and Aruna Raja, a Lt in the Indian Coast guard. She came with a dot, her long hair tied so tight he wondered if it was a plastic headpiece. He wondered if she danced. He heard Garcia singing a song from ‘Hum Kisise Kum Naheen,’ a Bollywood film. Abdul Mosleh, engineer, from Turkmenistan- retired Air Force, and Commercial Pilot for Emirates Airline. Sheila reminded him of someone. Or reminded Garcia of someone. She was a petite brunette, and Detroit Law Enforcement. Detroit Law Enforcement was the equivalent of being in the Military. She had started as an EMS, responding to emergency calls and then had a sudden switch in fields.
Professor Shoichi Amano entered. The class stood. Emmitt did not. It was impossible to know if Amano knew Emmitt’s name because he had memorized the roster or he was using ARF.
“Mr. Sheehan,” Amano said. “You didn’t stand.”
Emmitt didn’t know how to respond. He was suddenly ‘very’ focused. Was he being called out by the professor? Amano hadn’t asked a question. He could offer a rationalization, but that could be problematic in and of itself. It might denote fear. It definitely assumed Amano was judging him. There were a myriad of other irrational explanations and responses; context almost always assumed an appropriate response. He could simply say, ‘I did not,’ which would only establish that he agreed with Amano’s observation and that he was an idiot. His hesitancy in responding saved him.
“Sit down,” Amano told the class. “The conundrum. Do I execute the one for nonconformity, or execute the others for assuming a protocol that has not been explicitly given?”
“Execute, like kill?” someone asked.
“From this point forwards, assume all of my questions are rhetorical unless I call you by name,” Amano said. “You all assume you have been selected and that you have made it, and I assure you, you have not. You are candidates that might become candidates. There are forty of you. Before your trial period is over, I suspect 17 of you will be dead, and 18 of you will be dismissed. I would be genuinely surprised if no one quits before the end of this day. Feel free to save us some time and money and depart now. The door still works both ways”
No one got up. ‘There are some doors that once you c