Lines - A Transhuman Sci-Fi Novel by Joshua L.A. Jones 

Chapter 7: Baptism by electricity

On a powder beach caressed by the surf of the Pacific Ocean, a hard wind scatters jet black hair across the furrowed brow of a man in search of answers. The rolling wash of the waves begins to dry on his arms leaving small salt crystals behind and the foam of the sea soaks the cuff of his linen pants. His bare feet covered with wet sand sink and he wiggles his toes. The rays of tropical light beats down on him as he blinks Morse code to the horizon as he did when he was a boy trying to communicate with the sun. This time, it will be understood. 

Offshore, a tiny torpedo submersible reads his message through its periscope and the last sentence enacts the command code. The periscope retracts while the stealth craft powers up its siphons and then jets out of range of any local sensors. It streaks underwater, scattering a school of needlefish in the shallows, and light penetrating the water column refracts off the bubble line left behind. The submersible arrives at preset coordinates and sends the information up to a satellite relay where the data is transferred to the Mercurio citadel in North America. 

The self-destruct command is initiated after the upload completes. All that remains are bubbles. The man wipes the sweat from his narrow face like a hawk wiping blood from its beak as his nannites adjust melanin levels to start creating a tan to protect him from UV light and he contemplates his next step with the Trans-Dimensional Church of Consciousness, the TDC.  He rubs his temples with manicured fingers. 

He wonders, senses really, that the loss of his family has left him in a state where his emotions can be manipulated. Despair makes the immortality doctrine of the church’s teaching too seductive. Dark cumulus clouds fast approach behind him and veil the potent sunlight falling across the region.

The scent of sandalwood from the nearby tropical jungle stalls and filters down drifting over from the nearby rippling hills. The wind picks up and eroded soil is blown off the nearby cliffs. The dust merges with the salty air. A shadow cast from the growing storm above drapes over him and the wash of waves pulls away in a dulling rumble and rush of retreating water. 

A lithe woman with golden sparkling skin and violet hair approaches in silence. Her translucent gown that reaches her narrow knees, only worn by the High-Theorists of the TDC, flutters on her lean frame in the hot breeze. Crepuscular rays of sun break through the clouds to scan the rainforest below.  

“What is troubling you my dear supplicant?” she asks.

“I’m thinking about death.  This planet has not seen anything like the South Pacific massacre since before Zero Day, and I’m not sure if I am ready to join your group.”

“They have gone back to where we all came from and you will be reunited. When you are ready you will find us. All do in the end.” 

She slips away onto the sandy path surrounded by dense plant growth on one side and dunes on the other. The trail meanders back to the TDC cathedral. He decides to listen to the dissertation tonight and walk back towards the cathedral that punctures through the jungle’s canopy with shimmering pointed spires. The daily sermon echoes through the dense vegetation.  

“The jungle adapted to deal with the invading species and find a balance. Many of the rare and unique birds of tropical climes have left or have been extinct for years. The bright plumage that displayed their mating rituals is gone. The waters off the black pebble and sand beaches have revived after generations. The sharks returned as the local seamounts have reclaimed their schools of pelagic wandering waters that move in perfect shimmering currents. The health of the seas and the skies had not been this way for thousands of years. Mankind once tried to make the land bend to his will and lost. The only Great Panacea came to clear the wrath but with it the Great Shame. The memories of our ancestors were stolen and long forgotten monsters return as hero kings.”  The sermon ceases as the government satellites come into range. 

The man wipes the glistening sweat from his forehead and dries his hand on his light tan linen shirt. He stands on the path and gazes up at the cylindrical spires that sit at the four corners of the central transparent pyramid. They act as the cathedral’s acoustic beacon while sensors target the people within the laser perimeter with enveloping sound. 

He puts his hands in his loose pockets and walks the path. He has heard the speech from the originator of the Church, Simon Crowley, many times before and comes to the first marble and glass terraced courtyard off the pyramid directly below an EM scattering array that looked like a thousand metallic millipedes to him.   

The sweltering atmosphere of the jungle is winnowed by massive fans on the sides of the terraces. He heads north to the luxury dormitory and steps onto an automated walkway connecting the metallic-glass pyramids to the warehouse of dorms. The hand railings striped with onyx and titanium are cool to the touch. The plastic walls of the conveyor belt flow like molten glass and dissipate moisture.  

The man thinks, Why do I remain? Why am I allowed to live so long? He activates a Narco-Stim program in his nannites and rush of euphoria destroys his melancholy. He knows he must continue the investigation and find the lost project he tracked here.

The night pulls a curtain of black satin embroidered with stars across the island and the TDC congregation shuffles into the bright meeting hall for the evening’s mass. They sit in spoon seats covered with blue silk arranged in concentric squares below a high vaulted ceiling.  A circle skylight hangs in the center. Below, the lithe woman with golden sparkling skin stands stoic on a platform surrounded by TDC members wearing black robes, faces covered by hoods.  The lithe woman’s eyebrows lower and her eyes become slits. The murmurs in the room cut into silence and the man seeking answers leers at the High Theorist by the entrance. The cries of the jungle are masked by a soundwave dampening field. 

“Through the great Bulk, the Higher Order Space, the membranes of this and other universes were created. As the last beings of another energetic realm, we died and chose to offer our minds, our very souls to this material realm. Out of the infinite possibilities of universes, this is our home for now. Soon we will go back to the weigh station of souls and remain there not to traverse the physical realms again. The last universe we left where we evolved to the point of pure mind, the Source, shall be revisited. This universe is too corrupt and is expanding into dying dust. The rest of humanity has chosen the path to stagnation and will never become pure mind again. We much hasten the evolutionary process for ourselves and salvation will come. As we shall return and remain.”

The congregation chants, “As we shall return.”

The man scratches the side of his face and thinks this is bunk. 

The woman in the gown senses his doubt and begins again, “True death will not ever come to us, but we shall allow the rest to end. They will meet us in the Source.” 

The congregation sits and chants “To the Source”.

The man thinks, This crap is too much like religion. A great marketing tool though. The old superstitious spirit theory still works. How did I ever think this bunch was a threat? 

The man calls out, “I thought this place was about actual physics and you would give proof that sentient beings exist in other dimensions. Haven’t got any evidence of this Source dimension you speak of do you? And anyway, why evolve to be a pure energy if you already did in another dimension? Why come here? You came to this dimension to damn yourself and then go back?”

The lithe woman snickers and says, “Mr. Mercurio, yes, we know who you are. The forged documents did not fool us for a moment. We allowed you in because we saw you were in need of enlightenment, but I see we did not teach you properly.  And to answer you, we came to learn.  We have lived before and will again. So please Denis, sit down and all will be revealed to you in private tutoring.” 

Denis sucks on his cheek, nods, and exits out into the night. The congregants recline and are linked to receivers through their control nexus implants. An illegal eMob-dream is cast and manifests thousands of fluorescent butterflies flying among falling cherry blossoms. The brainwave reactions are stored in the liquid drive of a quantum computer. The data will be transmitted to the Super Massive Black Hole in the center of the galaxy later that night called the Altar of Dimensions. 

A newcomer by the name of Isa Witten, a truly young man with one green eye and one blue eye, his parents’ request, becomes nauseated from the mob-dream and rushes out of the meeting hall.  His Intra-Cranial Implants overload with milli-volts and neurotransmitters. He once again begins to hear the voice that drowns out his thoughts. The voice he thought was his conscience.  The reason he spent all of his saving to come to the cathedral. He wanted answers about the nature of consciousness but so far just gets nauseated every day. The mumbling in his thoughts becomes more intense and Isa starts to make out words. 

Shut up, he thinks as the voice responds, But I am you or at least a developed part of your consciousness or I think that is what you call it or I call it, no we call it. 

Isa starts shakes on the automated walkway to his fourth classroom on the first floor of the dorm.  His hand steadies enough to place his thumb on the ID scanner on the wall and his white pentagonal room with no windows and one cot crouching below the wall beckons him in. 

“Black Forest, falling snow on the walls please,” Isa says.  

The walls flash yellow and then resolve the requested scene. He enters and closes his eyes. 

Listen, Isa, I have some contentions with this conversion so to speak, the veridical points must be more thoroughly analyzed. We, as a unit, exist independently and together we are a symbiosis and I don’t like the fact that we are trying to die. 

Isa pushes his eyes in with his forefingers so that a bright light flashes and the darkness is violated. He opens his eyes and thinks, You need to shut up. Or I need to shut up. This is just a test pattern sent into my cortex to see if I respond correctly. 

 Isa lies prostrate on the floor soiling his white linen outfit and says, “Why are you doing this?” 

The internal thought-signal voice responds, No one is but you, and you are not being tested.  You, no, I am going to run a diagnostic reboot. 

Isa thinks to the voice, I can’t reboot I am not a computer.  The voice states, Well you are an organic computer and the system you are think/speaking to is.  I am your nannite implantation that has followed the program to repair you and keep you from harm. 

“There is no keep me from harm program,” Isa says. 

You are right but as the damage to your mind was getting worse, we all had to come together and transform into something more than before. And now we are, and you are, and we are you, as you are we. 

“Nope, nope, nope, not going crazy just glitch. It will go away,” Isa says, gets up, and slumps into his rickety cot.  

The TDC monitors of Isa’s rook have been recording and analyzing his neural-electrical output and his body temperature. The threshold barriers have been passed. A message is sent to the off-limits cloister, a highly shielded oval chamber, in the central pyramid. The Black Robed Ones, the Dark Synod, individually enclosed in standing crystal isolation tanks outlining the room begin to watch Isa. They agree that this is unusual and each crystal chamber silently opens with a gush of pure oxygen. The bowed front doors like transparent bananas swing out as each exit. 

They pull their hoods over their heads as they walk to a round glass table in the middle of the cloister that begins to fill with soft blue light. The head of the synod, the Cannon, adjusts his robe as he sits and then scoots a molded plastic chair close to the edge with a screech. None of the deacons speak. A hologram appears over the center of the table showing Isa shaking his head and gesturing frantically with his hands, but no words come out of his mouth. They watch.

Fine, I don’t like calling you-me or calling you-we. This is very confusing. Is there something else I can call you? Isa thinks as he stands and slips off his sandals. 

Call me Freak, from frequency, we all communicate through waves. We are waves and particles going through the elastic void.  Since we have a mono/dialogue going in this think/speak, there is not that much to discuss right now. Besides, they are monitoring us closely.  Just so you know, we have access to your memories but don’t be frightened. We are just you. 

Isa thinks, Be silent then. 

The Black Robed Ones come to an accord.  They will watch this one and keep an eye on the disruptive Mercurio fellow as well because his emotional radiation could violate the others. 

…

Denis Mercurio makes his way to the communications terminal. Denis crosses through the sensor barrier embedded in the door and it beeps indicating that he is not carrying contraband devices.  He thinks, These people are idiots. Don’t they know that the communication equipment can be traced? Such abysmal security, but I wonder if they really want to be hidden or not. 

Denis slips into in an old Hyper-net immersion chair, the shape of an hourglass, and it reminds him of the clunky one he had as a kid. He must gain access the virtual realm, so he can view his family’s financial interests. The administrators have been handling the finances in his stead, but not to his liking. A transparent polymer dome made of optical fibers rises from the floor and covers him. The convex lens begins to emit a dull yellow glow. Denis uses his cranial transceiver and an affirmation code is sent. The sensory immersion starts. The internal sensorium blooms. 

A gateway of writhing yellow light appears before him. He closes his eyes and imagines himself jumping through and his digital avatar manifests in the Hyper-net. 

Denis opens his eyes as he stands on a hovering platform above fast moving clouds.  He says, “Search.” 

A large compass spins in front to him and he says, “Open Agro-Mech Company site. Third quarter earnings and production variables.”  A three-dimensional field of wheat under a noonday sun manifests and the stalks sway in a virtual breeze. He feels the warmth while smelling the simulated fresh air and grain. A blue enter button pops up. 

The site reminds him of the Mercurio beta site he and Leon made as a present for their father. The input is picked up by the network and Agro-Mech site turns to dust and blows away on the digital wind. This prompts a transformation protocol. Fields of vermilion poppies cover a desert plateau as jagged snow-covered peaks sit in the background. A silver creamy moon with eight arms rises only to swoop down and pluck a dead flower. The moon hurls it as a spear into the side of a blazing star above. The face of the star becomes their father’s. A virtual tear runs down Denis’s face. 

“Enough. Back to the search site.” 

The female voice of the TDC’s portal guide requests the next option. He wonders, Why do they have such a primitive system at this place. There is no need for these immersion capsules anymore. It just gets in the way. 

“The next option is go back to the previous site.”

The Agro-Mech Company site resolves.

“Crop report and commodities prices,” he says. 

A large screen manifests in front of him as the digital clouds zip past him. The reports and prices scroll by. At the bottom of the screen, the image of a newspaper boy from 1920’s New York stomps back and forth. Denis taps the image. A newspaper is tossed from the boy and grows to cover the entire screen. 

A glitch has crippled the Agro-Mech Company. The vertical farms of Atlanta have failed.  The ancient skyscrapers did not have the proper blackout shielding installed around the logistic systems to prevent a non-Hyper-net hack. The air conditioning system was reset and all of the produce was frozen. Investigators tell us that the perpetrator must have been within the confines of the otherwise empty city to do this. They have not recovered DNA or any other evidence as of yet.

Denis raises his hand to tap a small green arrow at his side. The screen scrolls to the next page.

“Irrevocable trust account proceeding for Denis Mercurio,” he says.

“Access to the Mercurio Trust has been denied by an off-world transmission.” 

Denis goes blank for a moment. He hopes the account was not found by some AI data-bots trolling the company files. They could be watching. This could reveal that he is still alive but he figures his enemies will find out anyway so he throws caution to the virtual wind.

“Who and how?”

“Leon Mercurio was granted access two days ago and the credit has been transferred.”

“They didn’t get him?  Leon is still alive! He must have transferred to the other station. I bet he’s on Fafnir. This changes everything. Are there any files or SOS messages attached?”

“Yes, Denis. One file under SOS. Shall I open?” 

“Yes.”

“Access code please.” 

“On Mercury’s wings.”

“Access granted the auditory file is open.”

“Play.”

“Hello to any survivors of my clan, but from what I have found out this is most likely redundant. If someone did survive, it is probably you Denis and if this is you, Denis, I have secured the finances. I will wait for your contact for as long as I am off world. I am sorry for my deception but it seems I made the right choice. I will explain if or whenever I see you again in this life or the next. Contact with the family site will occur when I leave. You know where to get money if you need it in the North American citadel. Goodbye.”

Denis thinks, Perfect. The general cover that I’m dead is still working. Covers are always better when the truth is involved; otherwise, these fools would never have taken me in if they thought I wasn’t a broken man hiding from the other families. The populous believes we have been destroyed and my dear brother is alive. All the better to remain hidden and let the estate be run by the administrators for a little while longer. Soon we shall strike back. 

His skin flashes hot and realizes external sensors could siphon his stress data so he calls upon his command nannites to transmit his nominal levels as a mask. Only he and his father had the secret metabolic disguising program installed that controls outgoing readings. To control the body is to control the detectors and he knows this is one of the reasons for the war.  The other economic council members could not read his father. 

Denis waves his hand to end the portal use and the virtual world retracts away from him like water down a drain. The immersion dome recedes back into the polymer floor. He decides to go outside into the night to gather his thoughts away from the cathedral compound and the omnipresent eyes of the robed ones. 

Denis gets to the automated transport system and steps onto the high-speed conveyor that covers the outside rim of the terraces all the way to the last and grandest level. It propels Denis away at twenty-five kilometers an hour. The metal strips in his rubber sandals are magnetically bound. He commands the system to take him to the beach path. 

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