The Ghost in the Machine Chapter Seven Night Hawks
Where's your revolution plan?
Where's your need to make a stand
Hardwood floors are two things: hard and wooden. Smith lay stretched out where he had collapsed six hours earlier, his sharp blue eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. He had been awake for forty-five minutes, but had not moved. Mindlessly, he rose to his feet, cursed the day and rubbed his head for clarity.
It had been possibly the most anti-climatic experience of his life. There had been no great revelation, only a change in perspective. The radiant leviathan barely acknowledged his presence and brushed him aside like a bothersome child. The voice that appeared behind him as he lost consciousness returned and granted him only two cryptic pieces of information: "Wrong side of the table" and "1200 hours. Hopper Park." He anticipated an epiphany and all he got was a blind date.
He may not have received the answer he was looking for, yet Smith felt different. Despite the perplexity of the situation, he was relaxed. For the first time in three days, he was comfortable. The cockiness returned to his posture, the fluidity to his stride and an arrogant sense of superiority permeated his whole being. Could he remember anything to compare it with, he might conclude he felt "normal." Smith rooted the return of his self-confidence in a childlike security that all would be explained to him and he would accept it.
The highlighter squeaked and pools of purple ink bled through the pages. Kai's eyes focused intently on an invisible point in front of the refrigerator and the world around her ceased to exist. She gripped the marker tightly in her fist and the coffee maker was switched off. As windows to her soul, Kai's eyes looked inward to a dark and foreboding place. The marker slid backwards and forwards over the page like the shuttle of a loom.
Smith reclaimed his black suit. Michael or not, he could not bring himself to wear khaki in public. A crimson smear of blood stained his shirt and there was not another white one in the closet, bright pink and black being his only options. It was a choice between wearing something inspired by the color of Pepto Bismal and looking like a bookie during business hours. Smith opted for the latter and abandoned the tie, not wishing to go for the complete Goodfellas look. Mindful of the time, he glanced in the mirror over Kai's dresser and ran his hands through his damp auburn hair. No visible trace remained of the bruise. The miraculous recovery did not surprise him any more than the voices in his head.
Then he remembered. "Wrong side of the table."
He knelt down and retrieved the IMI Desert Eagle .44 he had found under the bed the night before. As he turned it over in his hands he recognized the government serial number engraved on the left hand side of the barrel: SPOO.70858.04. The magazine contained seven rounds. He was familiar with the 4.5-pound handgun and it fit his hand naturally. He holstered it and made a mental note that the weapon needed cleaning.
It was all coming together. Smith was beginning to understand and smiled gleefully as he realized how wrong Kai had been. Michael was not a loathsome criminal caught up in underhanded dealings. Michael was part of the system—an integral part of a flawlessly organized system. He played an indispensable role in serving justice to those who would threaten disorder. There was no more noble or selfless calling that Smith could imagine. Kai had implied that Michael was a criminal because she was jealous that she did not serve as important of a function. She was nothing more than a propagandist. He was so much more. Undoubtedly, that was the source of their difficulties, that and he believed she was quite insane.
***
"Planning on coming back?" Kai materialized from the kitchen as Smith slipped his jacket off the coat rack and pulled it on before she saw the gun. He turned and regarded her evenly.
"That is my intention," his face betrayed no emotion and his voice was flat.
"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," she responded automatically. The deep dark circles stole the richness of her eyes and the youthfulness of her face. "Are you coming back?"
"I am coming back," he did not try to suppress his annoyance.
Smith paid no heed to the boys stretched out on the sidewalk attempting to reanimate the smeared chalk art. He dismissed their efforts as futile; it was only a matter of time before another storm washed it away completely. The gray day rose up around him like a cradle of wet concrete and steel. Dense dark clouds overpowered the pale sun, despite its efforts to break free. Smith paid no heed to the sun.
***
A ghost draped in pitch moved down the middle of the crowded sidewalk. It was an otherworldly creature personifying the panoply of two extremes in a gray and apathetic world. It possessed an unnatural elegance in the evenness of its long stride. Each footfall was deliberate, calculated, and certain—the walk of a being incapable of taking a misstep. People obediently moved out of the way, not wishing to attract its attention and not knowing why.
***
Waiting at the crosswalk to Hopper Park Smith drew the attention of a small dark haired girl. She stared up at him intently, absorbing every detail into her large coal colored eyes. Bravely, she stretched out a tiny finger and touched his flawless hand. Smith recoiled immediately and looked down at her as though struck by a viper. His composure returned as quickly as it left. The girl held her ground and her aged grandmother continued to stare obliviously down the street. She raised her innocent eyes to meet her warped reflection in the mirrored glasses. "Are you God or are you the Devil?" She breathed.
With one slender finger, Smith pushed his glasses down his distinctive nose and soullessly returned her stare. He raised a thin eyebrow. "Only the messenger," he whispered back and flashed a Draconian smile. The sign blinked 'walk.'
The man in the dark suit was waiting at the edge of the lake and greeted Smith with a curt nod.
"I'm pleased to see you," Brown's eyes remained focused on the turbulent green water.
"Are you?" Smith put his hands in his pockets and raised his head to look down at him.
"Certainly," Brown began to walk keeping close to the low granite barrier along the shore. He let his superior take the outside. "How are you?"
"I hear voices. I feel as though I'm walking in circles inside a steel drum. I have no idea what is going on around me." He paused to register Brown's impassive reaction, "Aside from that I'm quite well and yourself?" Smith asked with an equivalent insincerity.
"Fine, thank you," He completed the superficial pleasantries. "I'm limited in what I can say," Brown maneuvered Smith towards a bench and sat down. A small group of nine year olds were launching homemade sailboats into the dark water. "Yours is a self correcting problem. I wish not to add to your confusion with a lengthy explanation of the situation. Instead, tell me what you know."
"I'm here am I not?" Smith leaned back on the bench and watched one of the boats capsize. "I know surprisingly little."
"What do you feel?" Brown slipped of off his shades.
"In what sense?"
"In all senses," Brown's soft voice grew softer. "What do you feel at this moment?" He toyed with his glasses reached up, almost accidentally, and removed his earpiece. His posture relaxed and he stretched his legs out in front of him.
Smith regarded him suspiciously and then exhaled. "You ever have the feeling that you're not sure if you're awake or dreaming?"
"All the time," Brown did not blink. They shared a lengthy silence.
Brown finally spoke, "Try not to think about it, but know that your feelings are correct—even those you cannot articulate." He motioned to the world around them with thin finger and whispered, "Trust in the fact that we are in control. As your colleague, I stress that you'll be back online shortly and everything will be corrected," he leaned closer. "As your friend, I say that considering the recent events, you should be pleased with the downtime you've got. Unfortunately, you've been placed in another delicate situation purely by accident."
"A delicate situation?"
"This concerns Kai Thoreau," Brown turned his attention to his shoes and dusted a piece of lint off his trousers as though waiting for some reaction from Smith. "She is very important to us. We've been monitoring her activities for some time as she has information that we cannot afford to lose, especially now. Agent Patel had been handling the situation as he is from the appropriate division—Special Psychological Observation and Operations—however, this happened," Brown gestured to Smith, "and it was given back to us. Given to you."
"Slow down," Smith held his hand up. "Patel? Louie Patel?"
"Poor choice of a first name," Brown snorted. "Yes, the same Patel who posed as the doctor looking at your head—"
"I knew he wasn't a doctor," Smith interrupted.
"No, he's a psych officer. He had to maintain and reinforce continuity. I'm not actively familiar with the contingency operating protocols in psych—we're enforcement, remember?" Brown registered Smith's unconvinced expression. "I know this is a lot to ask you to accept on face value. But, as I've stressed, it would be impractical to attempt to explain everything. For the time being, you must maintain the continuity that has been put in place. She is very unstable and very important." He furrowed his brow. "We also have no way of tracking her location. If she goes to ground, we could lose her."
"Are we talking about the same person?" Smith folded his arms. " I'm thinking about a foul mouthed, short, red haired female who dresses as though she's escaped from a circus fire?"
"That would be Kai." Brown smiled broadly.
"Unstable is an understatement."
"So is important." Another sailboat capsized. "Know that she is very persuasive and highly skilled. Jones has been attempting to follow her, but has had limited success." The children began to bombard the remaining ship with volleys of pebbles. "You must maintain continuity. This is our responsibility—your responsibility."
"Thus, I need to avoid 'rocking the boat,'" he nodded to the stone throwers.
"Additionally, you need to be aware of where she is at all times and make certain of her security."
"Secure from whom? Herself?"
"No, there are individuals who would very much like to see her terminated. They have tried in the past and may try again. Right now the entire system is unstable and anything can happen." His posture stiffened and he replaced his earpiece. "And wear your hardwire," he patted his breast pocket. "I've enjoyed this."
"Enjoyed what?" Smith remained sitting.
"I've never got tell you what to do," his lopsided grin contained a hint of youthful rebellion. "I'll be in touch." He tapped his earpiece and dissolved into the crowd.
Smith continued to sit on the bench for several hours watching the children, the sailboat, the water and the darkening sky letting the gulf between himself and the world before him increase with each passing second. He thought about Brown's cryptic comments, his feelings and impressions. "Trust that we are in control."
The question remained, in control of what?
***
The steam transformed the bathroom into a sweltering sauna. Distractedly, Kai drug her hand across the glass wiping away the moisture. In the oppressive silence she stood motionlessly staring into the mirror, a towel wrapped around her head and her bathrobe hanging loose. The rumble of thunder reminded her of other dreams. The world around her faded leaving her alone with her reflection. She flattened a trembling hand against the mirror over her eyes. The wet glass did not yield to her pressure and she curled her hand into a fist. The eyes continued to taunt her. She drew her fist back threateningly. Kai's meticulous words sliced through the silence. "Are you God or are you the Devil?"
***
It took three tries before Smith managed to get the front door open and he peeled his soaking jacket off as he sloshed in from the downpour. The lights were on, but the house was quiet. As he moved towards the bathroom he unbuttoned his shirt and began to wring it out. He waited for Kai to jump out of the shadows and start screaming over the water on the floor, yet she never appeared.
"Kai?" He tapped on the bathroom door when he saw the light on and heard running water. No response. He waited. "Kai?" He turned the knob. Shards of shattered glass covered the tile floor. Smith pulled the shower curtain back and turned the water off. The room was empty. He took a towel from the rack to dry his face and crunched back over the glass. The bedroom was empty as well.
She was nowhere to be found. In the kitchen, Smith rested his hands on the back of a chair and groaned as he let his head drop. The silence was claustrophobic.
"You wake up feeling pretty good." He spoke to the coffee maker. "You take a stroll in the park and find out that you're involved in a great global conspiracy of some sort." He turned to include the refrigerator in the conversation. "You find out that there's only one thing you really need to worry about. Just one thing and what do I do? I lose her the minute I find out I was supposed to keep up with her. Damnit!" He picked a book off the table and shook it at the coffee maker before realizing he was talking to the appliances.
Angrily, Smith yanked the chair back and sank down. A scowl settled on his face and he thumbed through the text while trying to organize his thoughts. Kai's much-abused copy of Engines of Creation fell open to the page violated by the highlighter. He ground his teeth and shoved the book away. Minutes later, the front door slammed as he headed back into the rain.
The book remained on the table. Its spine had been broken and the cover torn. Purple ink covered the entire page with the exception of three sentences:
"Knowledge can bring power, and power can bring knowledge. Depending on their natures and their goals, advanced AI systems might accumulate enough knowledge and power to displace us, if we don't prepare properly. And as with replicators, mere evolutionary "superiority" need not make the victors better than the vanquished by any standard but brute competitive ability." (Eric K. Drexler, "The Threat of the Machines," Engines of Creation. Anchor Books, 1986).
There's a place I try to go
So far from here I close my eyes,
I try to,
To disappear I look around in my own way but what I see I never,
Never really know I wander 'round until I feel it coming on
And then it's it's time to go I don't want to be here,
Falling out of place confusion's the consensus,
Fighting for my space
Can't stop the running…
From Can't Stop (Suicidal Tendencies, The Art of Rebellion)