the 8th day

"it is no measure of health, to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society" Jiddu Krishnamurti.

At the beginning of the 8th day, I stare out from my secret place to stare out upon the world. I watch the city slowly turn. My eyes are everywhere observing. My hands are everywhere, controlling. I pull those hidden strings, plant the tiny seeds, and prepare for my destruction.
It is just before dawn and clusters of stars, shine in bright geometric patterns, which glimmer in flickerings of white or red or blue. They glitter of intense clarity that can only be achieved upon high ground, or on a cold clear night. Yet the air does not feel damp, just cool, clean and well controlled.
Then on the eastern horizon, a line of pale blue begins to spread in a thin line. As the night begins to retreat, the stars slowly dissolve into the growing pale of a clear blue sky, paving the way for the sun, richly golden and perhaps full of hope as it slowly starts to rise upon a brand new day.
As the sun crosses the line of the horizon, It reflects and then refracts its light across the cityscape. The city is known as New London. The complex spires and crystal domes seem to rise up and touch the dawn like a delicate kiss, from a pair of mechanically fractured lips.
From the highest vantage point of the city, a man is sitting upon a veranda. He is sitting in a white wicker chair, next to a matching table, looking out towards the glittering cityscape that expands out from his apartment in every visible direction.
The table is cluttered with an assortment of heavy looking card copy files, a paper thin, clear screen net-book stands upright. The screen is a deep blue. Next to that is a bone china cup, decorated with twisting bright pink roses, and contains slowly steaming black tea. It rests upon a delicate thin slice of a saucer. He slowly stands up and stretches to his full height of a little over six feet. Then he slowly walks towards and leans over the thick frosted glass balustrade. A strained tension bleeds out from his narrow green eyes, as the City looms up at him with menace at its heart. His name is John Peterson. It is stitched in a long flowing vermilion hand, with grey steel coloured thread upon his pale blue dressing gown. His rough unshaven angular jawline visibly twists with heavy wrinkles under his well tanned, narrow set features. Slowly with an almost hidden effort, he steps back and then pulls the dressing gown tightly around his bone narrow frame, in what might be an unconscious act of protection, against the brand new day.
As he turns away from the view, his eyes fill with emotions. Fear, anxiety, anger, frustration and resignation come to the surface in heavy erupting waves that want to overtake him. The final emotion, sorrow, threatens to roll out from him like a running stream across the surface of his face. But only one small tear escapes. It trickles its way down the heavy furrows of his sallow sunken right cheek, and along the length of his narrow nose, where with a dismissive hand, he flicks it away. He notices it, as it falls over the balustrade, then down out of sight. There is a thick, total silence here. A rare numbing absence of any sound that can terrify some, yet not him. He is strong to the silence; it's something that he relishes. A brass bell rings out the hour - one, through to seven - and as the final bell rings, another noise begins. A near silent hum. The sound is made by complex hidden machinery, that suddenly awake to life. Within every room, shop, office or factory that rest within the city, a signal is sent, a message that rests at the heart of the city. The process is known simply as "alignment" and it makes Peterson's face twist with a nerve shredding fear. He puts his hand to his chest and breathes deeply.
Then there is another, far heavier noise; and this noise makes him smile like a small child. 'A Gravcar...' he says excitedly, at the whirring buzz and low pitched hum of a gravity engine. '..No...' he corrects himself. '...two.' His voice is barely a cracked whisper. As the humming is coming closer, with the look of a wild lunatic he once more leans over the balustrade. This time almost far too far, as he sees two sleek grav-cars, one deep red, the other black, slide their way along the huge swirling curving arches of the maglev rails. The black car then slides past and out of view, as the red car turns left upon the web-like track, to enter the parking station thirty floors below him. It is a car he recognises. So he returns to his chair once more. His breathing increases, once more, his eyes dilate, the wrinkles about his eyes crinkle into deeper furrows as a growing sense of trepidation fills his soul. As he sits there, his mind wanders over the world of forty years ago. He starts to talk to no one in-particular.
'It's easy to judge me... far too easy...but back then, things seemed clearer, more black and white...less confused by the moral, or the appearance of the moral.'
The words echo from his balcony and are lost in the growing morning light. It is hard for Peterson to consider the man of forty years ago .A man in the late prime of life. A man of moral principle who became slowly lost to himself as he aged. But in some ways he was a man of his time, shaped by his experiences. He grew up through the global famines caused by over population. The new ice age, caused by excessive pollution, the acid rain, the growing lack of fresh water. The earth was slowly dying and this led him to consider solutions that men who preceded him would never dare to think. He justified his point of view by stating at the final meeting of the then United Nations, that “...sacrifices needed to be made in the interest of the whole of humanity...” He recalled that he smiled at the rapturous applause... not that he would not received anything else, in a room full of like minded individuals as he.
For he and those who worked for him, worked towards the singular dream...the dream of immortality and the creation of a God. A blended being of human and machine, free from the suffering blight of human frailty, of human weakness and human suffering. Death would never touch it. So Peterson decided to name it after his long dead son, Joshua. Joshua... Love and pain followed his name. For the emotions that rolled within him like the pounding of a raging green sea slamming chaotically, breaking upon the granite rocks of his intellect. As the pain within him rose, he squeezed his right hand into a tight ball, until his nails popped through the soft skin of his palm. Joshua was grown, as a manufactured genius, connected to the hub of the latest bio-computers, shaped by the future history of mankind, and given within him the ability to control human destiny. The very planet itself was under his control. Whatever was needed, Joshua would design it, even the semi-human "replicators" known as Joshua models. As the years passed humanity rested in Joshua's arms. But now, forty years later Joshua, and those whom Joshua created, had changed.
Forty years later there lived a steady growth of Joshua models in every department store, in every company in every city of the growing empire. Finally leaving humanity behind. He visibly shakes his head in an attempt to force these memories back into the dark, where they belong, but as he does so, they come back harder and faster and more cruel. They accuse him and stand over him. He sits back down in the wicker chair As he subconsciously pushes a hand through his unkempt wiry, iron grey hair. Then he looks at the net-book rests open upon it. 'Net-book open.' His voice sounds rasping and dry. The screen changes colour and light bursts from the screen in a spiral insignia.
'Good morning Dr. Peterson...' my voice is clear and resonates with human tones, he designed it that way. 'And how can I be of service today?'
'Good morning Joshua.'Peterson is looking taut, his eyes now seem sharp and his voice sounds strong. 'Could I have access to the Indiana files please?'
'I am sorry Dr. Peterson, access to the Indiana files is restricted to level six clearance only. Since your retirement, level six clearance needs to be activated via councillor Pritchard.'
'Thank you Joshua.'Peterson shakes his head before replying. 'Joshua, back-door password, Alphadog prime.'
'Back-door password accepted...What would you like to see Professor?'
'I'd like the Indiana transcript file six on the netbook and film file one hash four three six, upon the thread screen please.'
Peterson looks down at the net-book and smiles with cold triumph as a grey box jumps out of the screen. The lid of the box opens and a ream of official documents appear. In the top right hand corner of the screen are the words: “High level clearance only.” they flash dark red, seeming, he thinks, to mock him. While behind him a voice speaking in broken eastern European English is heard muttering.'Thread volume silent,' Peterson coolly states. The voice behind him abruptly ends.
The apartment bedroom is large and well lit and could have been luxurious, if not for being so sparse. A vague scent of lavender arises from the uncarpeted polished parquet floor; a four poster bed is against the centre of the right hand wall. To the right of the bed, there is a large bedside cabinet with a collection of faded brown paperback novels, in a stack on top of each other, with torn yellow covers and broken spines. A large, square, white fur rug fills the floor by the bedstead, and hanging on the opposite wall, stands a sixty inch holographic or “thread”-tv. The holo-machine is on; shining fine lines of silent, but blurry and disjointed images directly into the centre of the room.
The silence shatters with a delicate hiss, and then a whirr, and a gentle click. Slowly the centre of the far wall liquefies and then dissolves revealing a well lit long tubular hallway. A second passes and the main light in the bedroom suddenly turns off, leaving the light from the hall to shine brightly deep into the new darkness. But the hall is not empty. For upon the threshold of the open, empty doorway, a cold, black shadow of a man stretches out across the bedroom floor. The shadow enters the room. It crosses over the white rug, directly in the path of the images from the thread screen.
For a second the images curl about themselves revealing, for an instant, the reflected image of the man who stands there. But then the man is gone once more, once again a spectre upon the floor, as he makes his way towards the door that leads to the balcony.
There is a click as the door slides open. Slowly Peterson turns to face the glass door that leads to his bedroom. His body is shaking violently with anticipation.
Pride comes before a fall they say and I have been proud so very proud proud of all we have done proud of all that I’ve done proud of the success the lives saved but now Oh God Oh God Oh God We fixed the world Oh God forgive me God forgive us forgive us for our lack of foresight those faces those faces on the screen Oh Jesus forgive me Oh God forgive me the voices they call at me they mock at me they tear into my mind and rip my insides out Oh I am so old but I do not want to die I don’t want to face the reality of my life or the pain I have caused either is there a chance yes there is still a chance there is always a chance…
The shadow fell over Peterson but he didn’t look up.
‘So they sent you?' he asks sadly.
‘Yes.’ is the sad, almost disjointed reply.
Then Peterson turns and looks up.‘There’s still time…’ Peterson can hear the desperation, yet feels separate from it ‘…We can still end this...Look... We bring it into the open...’ He nervously waves his hands about like a desperate clown. ‘...I’ve sent this off to central command…’ He took a step back and slowly began to get down into a crouch. ‘come…’ He began, soothingly ‘...let’s get upon our knees, we must confess our sins...wwe must c,c,confess.' spittle flies from his mouth. His eyes are as wild as a lunatic. His hair unkempt and though he can hear the babble coming from his mouth, he can’t help himself. He is a man out of control. Deep inside, a part of him knows what’s going to happen and that honest part of him needs to face it. But another part of him simply cannot, or dare not want to face what is going to happen next. Death, his mind screams, might not be a part of life, but it is not gracious kind or even gentle. Death is ugly faceless and cruel. A shadow, like the shadow that now stands before me. But this shadow is upon the face of all humanity. Oh, Joshua, where did I go wrong?
‘There, there's still time…’ He nods like a man insane. ‘...There’s still hope’ he nods smiling insanely he gets down upon his knees. He looks up towards the empty space where the light fragments. it leaves the shape of a human shadow over this old, tired and broken form. Though his hands are shaking, he tries to put them together in an act of prayer. ‘Oh my God’ He says sadly.
‘Yes-’ comes the fractured, tortured sounding reply.
The shot can barely be heard. The deep red plasma beam disintegrates the wool of his dressing gown, melting the silk of his pyjamas, turning the skin beneath to old black crusty leather, dissolving the flesh and turning his beating heart to flakes of ash.
***
AZ578 is a professional and being a professional he hides the pain of his emotions well. He hides them behind large,round pale blue eyes. Hard heavy looking, steady hands. A young looking, square face and a strong jaw. With brusque determination, he parks his black grav-car, then, after picking up the cylinder that rests on the passenger seat next to him. He slides the car door shut.
He then crosses the marble floor of the lobby and enters the building, but only after receiving an eye-scan from the security system entrance. He crosses the hall, and then presses the button for the lift. He waits a few seconds; tapping the long tube he had in his left hand against his foot impatiently. The steel doors slide open, then, as he enters the doors slide shut behind him.
The lift hums into life. with a deft hand he turns off the camera in the lift with his right fist. Then he raises up the tube midway. Then he opens it and pulls out a length of shining reflective material that then falls to the floor. The material extends and covers the half of the lift floor, taking on the form of a liquid metal shines is swirls and spirals. AZ578 takes a breath, and then steps upon it, the liquid expands along the floor of the lift, then it begins to wrap around his body in spirals that twist about each other. with a distracted fascination he watches his body slowly begins to blend into the walls,in front of his eyes. He raises his arms as the liquid material entwines about them, then he looks up as the final stands wrap about his head.
There is a violent shudder before he fades and blends into the lift walls. And as he disappears his mind wanders over the conversation he had yesterday afternoon.
‘Joshua has a job for you…’ began narrow rat faced senator Pritchard nervously. He shook his head as he handed AZ578 the blue data digital chip. ‘ its a special job…’AZ578 looked knowingly at Pritchard would not meet his gaze.‘...we thought that it would be better…’ Pritchard said quietly There was a strained look on Pritchard’s face before he continued; ‘…if you took the job on.’ 578 looked at the face of Jonathan Peterson.
'I don't understand...' he began '...I owe him my very existence, without-' he shook his head wildly 'Is this some kind of sick joke?’
There was a long silence, a long hard look from Pritchard that made AZ578 quake.
'But…' his words sounded displaced as he spoke them 'Why? And more importantly, why me??'-Because Joshua want's you to do it...' Pritchard answered calmly. 'He feels, like many do, that Jonathan is now a danger to himself and those about him....He simply knows too much.'
Henderson shook his head sadly, feeling the pain build within him like a sour lump of bile.
‘Of all the people!'
'We understand.' Pritchard said. His green eyes calmly stared directly at him. In the silence that followed, a grav car hissed by.
'What If I say no?'
'Of course you have the right to say no, you have every right and we understand...But also, if you turn it down then we would then have to give the job to ABD376.'
'376 is a fucking savage. He loves this work far too much, he'd have him in pain for hours just for fun.'Pritchard smiled sadly. 578 nodded. 'Quick and clean.'
'quick and clean.' came Pritchard's reply.
'But This makes no sense he's an old man! please tell me why'
'We can't tell you...' was the reply.'...All I can say is that you will be doing a great service for Joshua.'
So AZ578 left, and spent the night cruising the streets, his mind retracing, rethinking and resolving.
'Good morning and happy birthday Alpha Zeta 578.' The disembodied voice that came out of the darkness, sounded cracked yet full something that made him feel a deep warmth inside. The warmth from within him begin to expand out, as he opened his eyes, he began to define bright shapes that made him shut his eyes tight.
'Please be careful 578 allow your eyes to slowly become accustomed to the light.'
578 slowly opened his eyes once more, he could see light all around him, and gold white rounded cushions that felt soft to his skin that began to feel cold as a grey mucus liquid began to drain away.
From the warmth of his birthing chamber, 578 looked up and stared with awe at the two people, who smiled gently down upon him.
'Do you know who I am?..Wwho we are?
'No...'
The faces that looked down upon him looked pinched with wrinkles, yet his eyes were wide and shone with light. 578 looked between one and the other, they looked so alike it was frightening.'My name is Jonathan.' said one.'And my name is Joshua' said the other, who then somehow shaped himself into another form that was hard to define, and then dissolved. Leaving Jonathan alone.
'Who...am I...' 578 coughed violently, and some white mucus spat out from his mouth. '...and why am I here?'
Jonathan smiled. 'We will answer all your questions later,' said Jonathan gently.
The years sped on, and 578 spent his time reading Plato, and understanding Kant, studying the politics of Machiavelli, the science of twin universes, and between all the studying there were battles upon Cygnus four and the moon of Io.
Yet all the time, 578 never knew his purpose, all his actions seemed to him separate from himself, as if they were actions performed by a mute dummy. He read and understood so much, but the real questions he wanted answers to, always evaded him. The question of his existence nagged him night and day until he decided to go the archive and ask Joshua.
The archive was the second largest building in the city, its unsupported dome was so huge that within its circumference a micro climate was formed.
This was where Joshua lived,the entity that had the creator Jonathan's form, yet was something greater than the maker.
578 walked through the main arch entrance, and joined the first queue. It took an hour to get to the front. He touched the dark glass screen and a female face appeared.
'Good morning 578, my name is UDC466 how can I be of assistance.?' came the distant reply.
'Good morning... I'd like to make an appointment to see Joshua please.'
'I'm afraid that Joshua is busy at the moment. Is there a chance that I-'
'-But if you-' the automated reply continued'
'- I just want to know-'
'-leave a message with the cloud, then Joshua will rep-'
'Why am I here?'
'-ly in the next forty-eight hours.'
466 smiled gently and then disappeared. The screen went blank.
Joshua left slowly shaking his head, as he weaved between the anonymous sexless faces their bodies wrapped in shrouds of cloth. All of this led to Prtichard, and his little rat face. Pritchard and the knowledge that he would have to take the life of his creator without having the knowledge as to why he was given life, what purpose he had, and what reason there was to his existence.
578 shut his eyes and heard his grav-car slide and weave through the grid,he stetted his nerves and rested until the sun came up and graced the edge of the wind-screen. Then He punched in the co-ordinates for the plaza building Peterson's apartment complex. He felt a twist in the pit of his stomach as the car span around.
Now, at a little before five-thirty in the morning, as he slowly starts to enter Peterson’s flat, the not knowing why starts to itch at his soul like a greedy, blood sucking Martian tick.
As 578 slides through the bedroom apartment, his ghostlike body leaves shadows upon the walls the doors the seats about him, and as he sees this he knows that he cannot be seen... He is a living ghost, a spirit disembodied. He walks with determination towards his target, his mind tumbles and bounces off the walls within him over what he has to do.
‘There’s still hope…’ Peterson says.
He looks down upon Peterson as he starts to babble insanely. Henderson can feel his resolve slowly start to dwindle as he sees the man, his father stand before him crying like a child. The gun slowly wavers in his hand as his heart begins to break.
‘My son...’
‘Yes I am.’ 578 hollowly replies, as slowly he pulls the trigger.
578 unwinds the reflector suit and as he does so, he looks down at down at the micro-screen of the net-book upon the table.
In the top right hand corner of the screen the words “High level clearance only” shines brightly, tempting him, so he sits down to read.
“It cannot be denied that Dr Peterson’s work in progressive gene therapy has had a remarkable effect upon the human condition, giving humanity a chance at tasting eternity. However, the harvesting of the genetic material needed to grow the cells for the Joshua models means certain considerations regarding secrecy..."
The words are hard to follow after that. He shakes his head. ‘Harvesting?’ he asks as he reads and re-reads the article. 'Harvesting for what purpose?' he asks himself, as he reads the words "Humanity's last chance is the experience machine. Where a chance to be free is hidden in the lie."
578 knew of the experience machine. it was an idea proposed in the latter half of the twentieth century, that proposed the position that an individual could shape his or her own life. Simply enter what you want to experience and let the machine do it for you...he looked
'But what has that to do with me?' he asks.
"For the machine to work certain biological systems are needed."
He reads it over and over again, the words melt into his mind, a door opens a door closes... the world is not as it sees itself to be, while the words of a long forgotten poem entered his mind
"And when God was murdered, beneath the dark morning sky, the world slowly rocked and all gods children sighed."
"It is then that he notices the holo-screen is on, he picks up the controls that rest on the white rug and he turns the volume up.
‘This is stage one of the harvesting procedures, necessary for Joshua alignment.’ the anonymous Russian accent said coldly. The screen rotates and twists slowly to where a man in a white lab coat is hunched over something small, misshapen, red and blotchy. The image suddenly shudders as the camera closes in on what is lying on a glass Petri-dish.
What 578 forces him take a step back and put a hand over his mouth and cover his eyes, as the the realisation slowly dawns upon him. For filling the centre of the screen are a pair of tiny human hands connected to tiny arms, severed at the elbow.
It is then, that az578 knows what he has to do. He now knows his destiny. Joshua has to die. So with steely resolve he makes his way from the near silent apartment, determined to complete his mission.
While I stare out upon the day.
From my secret place I stare out upon the world at the beginning of the 8th day. Here I see all and know all, my eyes are everywhere observing; my hands are everywhere, controlling. I am pulling the hidden strings, planting tiny seeds, preparing for the change. I see all... I know all and I wait for him to arrive with divine acceptance. waiting...longing, aching to be free...

inC-2012