Agent Jason Mathis almost missed his phone ringing in his pocket. The noise of the crowd gathered around the scene was making it hard for him to concentrate, much less hear his cell phone. It was a horrific sight, and one that despite its grotesquery was dulled in his mind by its familiarity.
“Mathis, go ahead,” he never wasted time on the phone, it might be required for the job, but he hated using cellular technology.
“Agent Mathis we have a connection from Director Andrews please hold.” The operator on the line must be new.
If there was one thing that he liked less than his phone, he hated having it up next to his ear waiting for someone to connect. Anyone other than the director on the line and Mathis would have already put the phone back into his pants pocket where it would be out of sight and out of mind. Thankfully the director was prompt in connecting.
“Mathis, we have a problem.” It was a typical preparation line that Mathis was used to hearing. Homeland Security was good at not shocking its agents too hard in doling out bad news. “I just got off the phone with a state trooper barracks in northern New York, they say that they’ve found something we might be interested in and want us to send up an agent. We’ll have a car come get you and have you en route in 20 minutes.”
“What’s the problem sir, if you don’t mind me inquiring?” Mathis asked casually, knowing that the answer wouldn’t be to his liking. He rubbed his free hand back through his curly hair; it was an old habit from college when it was much longer.
“I’ll let you figure that out when you get there, the plane takes off in 45 minutes and you should be landing somewhere up there in roughly 2 hours. Call me when they’ve filled you in and update me.” The phone clicked and went dead.
It was typical; no one ever told Mathis anything, which was fine. After 7 years in the department he was used to it. His face had a lot more lines now then it did back then. He had even begun finding a few stray gray hairs recently; not a good sign. He pocketed the phone and pulled the rubber gloves he was wearing off and turned back to the scene on the sidewalk. His assistant for the day was bent down over what was left of the body going through the pockets for information.
“Tyler, I’ll need you to take over here, the director wants me upstate in 3 hours. You call me though if you find anything here.”
“You got it Chief. CSU is just about finished examining the area and the witnesses are already downtown giving statements.” Tyler never bitched about his role and that’s why Mathis appreciated him so much. “Damn shame though if you ask me, why anyone would jump 67 stories straight down is beyond me.”
“Well it’s the fifth one in as many days so let’s start asking some relevant questions to the relevant people. Get in contact with his family once he’s identified I want to know everything there is to know about this guy. Don’t leave out anything.”
“Sure thing, I’ll make sure you know his favorite restaurant and what’s playing on his stereo too.” Tyler was always thorough.
“Alright then I’m outta here, keep this place locked down. Do not let the media in here until every last drop is cleaned up, you got me?”
“Loud and clear, now get the hell out of here before they have to come drag you away.”
--
The ride to the airport was uneventful which afforded Mathis with enough peace to get a little reading done. The preliminary report from upstate was unclear at best. There was a body found in an abandoned tin mine and the police couldn’t identify it.
The information was sketchy at best but it appeared that someone had been sealed up in a mine alive and was discovered by some local kids who were fooling around in the old tunnels.
Mathis arrived at the airport on time and was driven right out on to the tarmac. Agent Lopez was waiting there for him with a grin on her face. She was Mathis’ other assistant. She was of Mexican descent, a beautiful dark haired woman, with a fiery Latino attitude and a wit as sharp as her dark eyes.
“Chief, I got your overnight bag from the office, what do you keep in there anyways it weighs a ton.” The bag was on the ground next to hers. It looked quite large next to her small carryon bag. “I thought I packed heavy but you got me beat, is there a dead body in there I don’t know about?”
“The contents of my travel bag are classified, and only I have the clearance to know what’s inside.” Mathis smiled despite his exhaustion.
He’d been working for the past 3 days on what the media were calling “The Long Jumpers”. Various unrelated individuals had begun jumping off buildings in Manhattan. There was nothing odd about jumpers; New York City had its share of suicides. However after the 3rd jumper a connection between them began to emerge. Witnesses always said they jumped at around 6PM and it was always sudden, like they just decided to take a walk. The height was also interesting in that in each case the jumper leapt from the 67th floor of whatever building they were in; never higher and never lower. So someone called Homeland Security, and that meant Mathis and his team.
In his seven years in Homeland, he’d seen a few strange things, but more recently things were getting even stranger. Unsolved cases were beginning to pile up in government agencies across the globe. A decade previous the statistics for crime and other investigable events had been at an all-time low. The 20’s had been a quiet decade. Mathis had joined in 2025 imagining a roaring career like the lawmen of the last century; gun fights, car chases, deep mysteries. Instead he ended up being bored most of the time reviewing video camera surveillance and studying bank transactions. In his first five years he saw less than a dozen violent crimes.
But that all changed in 2030. The uptick in violence and crime had been shocking. Now after nearly two years of constant investigation he was looking back on the boring days with a little more than longing.
Standing on the tarmac waiting to board the jet Mathis really started feeling older. His best feature, his piercing blue eyes, that had once been so bright that people joked he could see in the dark, had faded and sat above hollowed cheeks and dark circles. He imagined that in addition to his desensitized mind he also had lost his soul somewhere along the path. Now he just did his job because he didn’t know what else to do, and even if he had known he couldn’t imagine that anything out there would make him happy.
“There ready for us Chief.” Lopez was looking worried, apparently he’d been lost a little too long in his reminiscing.
“Alright, let’s get to it.” He tried to sound more positive as they climbed the stairs up to the small jet’s cabin.
He sank down into the seat closest to the door and put his overnight bag across the aisle in the other seat. It was his way of telling everyone that he needed a little time to himself. By the time the plane took off he was already asleep.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Chapter 2 - Waiting for the End
He stared at the cracked ceiling. The paint had long since peeled off, leaving a flaked gray surface mottled by mildew stains and various gouges and pits. The room was small, having been divided from a larger room some years earlier to facilitate the growing population of the building. The new wall contrasted sharply with the originals, which abutted it. Even with a poster of some tropical island covering the graffiti, the exposed plywood wall looked grossly out of place next to the faded beauty of the original wallpaper, although the maroon flowers were nearly obscured behind years of filth and sun damage. The rug, once an exquisite floor covering, had worn down into the hardwood beneath, creating an undulating patchwork of shag and splinters. The single window looked out over what was once a large park. A shantytown had grown up in the streets around it and the available land had been cleared for growing food. The film of soot and dust had nearly obscured the view, but he doubted that window washers would ever scale the walls again: uptown perhaps, where the rich still could afford such a service, but not here where the forgotten roamed. He stared up at the cracked ceiling.
It had been one of the most exclusive hotels in the city around the turn of the century. Catering to princes and dignitaries, the hotel boasted the best rooms and finest cuisine in the city. It wasn't exclusive anymore…in fact it catered to just about anyone, which was why he was here. The poor, sick, and unnoticed now crowded its halls and rooms. The little money he had left secured him a "private room"…and the guarantee that he would be left alone. He had checked in, paying one of the half dozen "floor lords" for the "luxury suite" he now lay in. The sheets were almost white, with very few holes, and apparently the proprietor still maintained some pride in his service. He stared at the cracked ceiling.
Twenty-five days…the prognosis was grim. He was letting himself slip away. The protein patch stuck to his side maintained his nourishment, and allowed him to forgo eating, which he now abhorred. A part of him felt cheated, and he thought of his own father's final days…the resignation of will, and the comfortable anticipation of death that followed. Now at 29, he was dying, and the rage of the injustice being dealt him was the only hindrance keeping him from accepting his fate.
Worst of all however was the irony of the situation. It was the hardest thing to swallow. In the months leading up to his affliction, he had led a happy and affluent life. He had a large home that made his current abode look like a kind of joke that people couldn't maintain because they felt sorry for the victim. The house was now gone…the police claimed arson, but didn't investigate. After the scandal, no one would help him, and yet he had helped so many.
By twenty-six, he had tackled the most deadly disease of the 21st century. He had developed an inhibitor for Cradon F, a debilitating disease that attacked higher brain functions and motor control. After three years in the lab, he had produced wet-ware that when fused to the cerebral cortex realigned the neural pathways to return motor function, and circumvented damaged brain tissue restoring full health. Thousands of victims, thought beyond help, had gotten out of bed, less than three hours after being infused with the cure. His own brother, Arthur, had gone home to his wife and children the same day.
Instantly, he had become famous, his home filled with awards and citations. He was awarded honorary degrees from nearly two dozen universities; Cambridge University gave him an honorary tenured position, and an open invitation to lecture at his leisure, and all before his twenty-seventh birthday.
He was not, however, without his detractors. Corporations dealing in medical supply, research, and treatment of Craden F went bankrupt in a matter of weeks. Meditech Labs went under four days before Christmas, putting 20,000 employees, and their families out of work. The 45 acre complex was "torched" a week later, as former employees rioted in response to the layoff.
Multinational Corporations with diversified interests suffered less, but profits went down none-the-less. Branches researching treatments for Cradon closed down, causing massive layoffs and firings. Through all, he was oblivious to the financial damage he was causing. He was getting richer minute by minute, and enjoying his newfound fame.
But right under his nose entities began to conspire against him. Susan Falcourt, a former employee and friend of his wife hired a private investigator to tail him. She sold six months of information to the Newsnet 7 for an undisclosed amount of credit. Nothing ever hit the net. The information was snatched up by the World Health Organization less than three hours after its transfer to Newsnet.
Suddenly, like a summer storm, detractors began appearing in high profile positions to discredit him. At first, he dismissed the accusations as jealousy and misinformation, hoping that the issues would disappear. As the weeks passed, amidst mounting pressure from friends, he was forced to respond to allegations ranging from marital infidelity to credit fraud. None of the charges were valid, but the mere fact that they were being run across the news and nets was enough for some of his oldest allies to begin distancing themselves from him.
Soon, even his close friends stopped calling altogether. The slander became overwhelming. He was forced to sequester himself in his Malibu home for fear he would be attacked on the streets. Charges of unauthorized testing on human patients were raised and warrants were issued. The same day, his wife filed for divorce. An unstoppable avalanche of lies had engulfed his life. Homeland Security arrested him twenty-four hours later.
He was held in custody for three weeks before he was summoned before a senate sub-committee. He was grilled extensively for nine days. One senator went so for as to blame the Craden F syndrome on him. Every charge was false, refuted by recordings he had made secretly from the beginning of his research and development of the inhibitor device. He was quietly acquitted, but the damage had been done. Like a plague victim, no one would touch him.
The arrest and subsequent civil trials had left him friendless and nearly broke. He was forced to liquidate all his assets. His house went on the market, but before it sold, it burned down in a mysterious fire. The preliminary indications looked like it was arson, but the police refused to investigate. His name and reputation had gone up in smoke, just like his home.
A week later, he secretly left the country finding his way to Singapore, and set up a small laboratory. He was driven to discover why he had been publicly ruined. The answer, he surmised, must have originated in his cure of Craden F. With very little research, he discovered his assumption was correct.
Two weeks after he began to dissect the Craden F virus, he began to see a pattern in the amino acids and nucleotides. It was a pattern he had overlooked in his original research. The virus was a neural inhibitor, which in itself was not uncommon; many diseases were degenerative. But upon comparing the various diseases that attacked the nervous system and neural pathways, he discovered that with the exception of Craden F, all of the other diseases were gradually degenerative, attacking slowly and indiscriminately. Craden F was the exception . . . it attacked neural pathways rapidly and specifically. He dug further, deep into the genetics of the virus, looking for an answer.
What he found shocked him to the very core of his being. Craden F was not a naturally occurring disease; it was engineered. In his research he had dealt with circumventing damage and strengthening neural pathways to withstand attack, in essence creating a protected system inside the brain. He had not taken a close look at the disease . . . no one had.
But who would listen? He had stumbled onto the biggest conspiracy against humanity in the 21st century. It was a manufactured disease with the power to ravage the planet leaving very few to survive. Africa had been its test site. Nearly 200 million had died in the first five years alone. If his wetware had not been introduced in sub-Saharan Africa, projections had placed the mortality rate near 95%. A land of untapped natural resource and nearly no population at all would be a gold mine for investors. Any world power could walk in and develop without protest. In Europe, Asia and the Americas, Craden F had been less of a threat, but it had been on the rise. Worldwide projections had estimated the disease had infected 1 billion people. Almost half that number died from it. Unchecked it might have ravaged 75 percent of the globe’s population. He had stepped in front of the largest conspiracy in the world and destroyed it, without even knowing what he was doing.
Unfortunately, even though he had the answer, he was still plagued by questions. Who was responsible, and why? Undoubtedly, it would take massive resources and capital to finance an operation of global scale. There were only a handful of governments and corporations that could even think of funding an undertaking of such proportion. So he began researching Craden F and its origins.
He was deep into the research when the news reached him; his brother had been killed in New York City. So he made his way secretly back into the country, crossing under the Rio Grande in a smuggler’s tunnel. He made his way to New York and began digging around to discover answers about his brother’s death. He discovered it had been a message. The killing had been used to lure him back into the states. Someone wanted him back in America.
He used what little money he had left to secure a room at the once grand Ritz Carlton under an assumed name. He knew it wouldn’t be long before someone came to finish him as well. Three days later he was poisoned eating noodles from a street vendor. The toxin worked slowly, and he knew that he couldn’t engineer a cure in time. He would die unnoticed in a small room on the fifth floor of the Ritz; a fitting end. William Newhouse had resigned himself to his fate. He stared at the ceiling. He knew he was going to die.
What he didn’t know was that someone else was looking for him. And unlike the rest of the world, they wanted him to live.
It had been one of the most exclusive hotels in the city around the turn of the century. Catering to princes and dignitaries, the hotel boasted the best rooms and finest cuisine in the city. It wasn't exclusive anymore…in fact it catered to just about anyone, which was why he was here. The poor, sick, and unnoticed now crowded its halls and rooms. The little money he had left secured him a "private room"…and the guarantee that he would be left alone. He had checked in, paying one of the half dozen "floor lords" for the "luxury suite" he now lay in. The sheets were almost white, with very few holes, and apparently the proprietor still maintained some pride in his service. He stared at the cracked ceiling.
Twenty-five days…the prognosis was grim. He was letting himself slip away. The protein patch stuck to his side maintained his nourishment, and allowed him to forgo eating, which he now abhorred. A part of him felt cheated, and he thought of his own father's final days…the resignation of will, and the comfortable anticipation of death that followed. Now at 29, he was dying, and the rage of the injustice being dealt him was the only hindrance keeping him from accepting his fate.
Worst of all however was the irony of the situation. It was the hardest thing to swallow. In the months leading up to his affliction, he had led a happy and affluent life. He had a large home that made his current abode look like a kind of joke that people couldn't maintain because they felt sorry for the victim. The house was now gone…the police claimed arson, but didn't investigate. After the scandal, no one would help him, and yet he had helped so many.
By twenty-six, he had tackled the most deadly disease of the 21st century. He had developed an inhibitor for Cradon F, a debilitating disease that attacked higher brain functions and motor control. After three years in the lab, he had produced wet-ware that when fused to the cerebral cortex realigned the neural pathways to return motor function, and circumvented damaged brain tissue restoring full health. Thousands of victims, thought beyond help, had gotten out of bed, less than three hours after being infused with the cure. His own brother, Arthur, had gone home to his wife and children the same day.
Instantly, he had become famous, his home filled with awards and citations. He was awarded honorary degrees from nearly two dozen universities; Cambridge University gave him an honorary tenured position, and an open invitation to lecture at his leisure, and all before his twenty-seventh birthday.
He was not, however, without his detractors. Corporations dealing in medical supply, research, and treatment of Craden F went bankrupt in a matter of weeks. Meditech Labs went under four days before Christmas, putting 20,000 employees, and their families out of work. The 45 acre complex was "torched" a week later, as former employees rioted in response to the layoff.
Multinational Corporations with diversified interests suffered less, but profits went down none-the-less. Branches researching treatments for Cradon closed down, causing massive layoffs and firings. Through all, he was oblivious to the financial damage he was causing. He was getting richer minute by minute, and enjoying his newfound fame.
But right under his nose entities began to conspire against him. Susan Falcourt, a former employee and friend of his wife hired a private investigator to tail him. She sold six months of information to the Newsnet 7 for an undisclosed amount of credit. Nothing ever hit the net. The information was snatched up by the World Health Organization less than three hours after its transfer to Newsnet.
Suddenly, like a summer storm, detractors began appearing in high profile positions to discredit him. At first, he dismissed the accusations as jealousy and misinformation, hoping that the issues would disappear. As the weeks passed, amidst mounting pressure from friends, he was forced to respond to allegations ranging from marital infidelity to credit fraud. None of the charges were valid, but the mere fact that they were being run across the news and nets was enough for some of his oldest allies to begin distancing themselves from him.
Soon, even his close friends stopped calling altogether. The slander became overwhelming. He was forced to sequester himself in his Malibu home for fear he would be attacked on the streets. Charges of unauthorized testing on human patients were raised and warrants were issued. The same day, his wife filed for divorce. An unstoppable avalanche of lies had engulfed his life. Homeland Security arrested him twenty-four hours later.
He was held in custody for three weeks before he was summoned before a senate sub-committee. He was grilled extensively for nine days. One senator went so for as to blame the Craden F syndrome on him. Every charge was false, refuted by recordings he had made secretly from the beginning of his research and development of the inhibitor device. He was quietly acquitted, but the damage had been done. Like a plague victim, no one would touch him.
The arrest and subsequent civil trials had left him friendless and nearly broke. He was forced to liquidate all his assets. His house went on the market, but before it sold, it burned down in a mysterious fire. The preliminary indications looked like it was arson, but the police refused to investigate. His name and reputation had gone up in smoke, just like his home.
A week later, he secretly left the country finding his way to Singapore, and set up a small laboratory. He was driven to discover why he had been publicly ruined. The answer, he surmised, must have originated in his cure of Craden F. With very little research, he discovered his assumption was correct.
Two weeks after he began to dissect the Craden F virus, he began to see a pattern in the amino acids and nucleotides. It was a pattern he had overlooked in his original research. The virus was a neural inhibitor, which in itself was not uncommon; many diseases were degenerative. But upon comparing the various diseases that attacked the nervous system and neural pathways, he discovered that with the exception of Craden F, all of the other diseases were gradually degenerative, attacking slowly and indiscriminately. Craden F was the exception . . . it attacked neural pathways rapidly and specifically. He dug further, deep into the genetics of the virus, looking for an answer.
What he found shocked him to the very core of his being. Craden F was not a naturally occurring disease; it was engineered. In his research he had dealt with circumventing damage and strengthening neural pathways to withstand attack, in essence creating a protected system inside the brain. He had not taken a close look at the disease . . . no one had.
But who would listen? He had stumbled onto the biggest conspiracy against humanity in the 21st century. It was a manufactured disease with the power to ravage the planet leaving very few to survive. Africa had been its test site. Nearly 200 million had died in the first five years alone. If his wetware had not been introduced in sub-Saharan Africa, projections had placed the mortality rate near 95%. A land of untapped natural resource and nearly no population at all would be a gold mine for investors. Any world power could walk in and develop without protest. In Europe, Asia and the Americas, Craden F had been less of a threat, but it had been on the rise. Worldwide projections had estimated the disease had infected 1 billion people. Almost half that number died from it. Unchecked it might have ravaged 75 percent of the globe’s population. He had stepped in front of the largest conspiracy in the world and destroyed it, without even knowing what he was doing.
Unfortunately, even though he had the answer, he was still plagued by questions. Who was responsible, and why? Undoubtedly, it would take massive resources and capital to finance an operation of global scale. There were only a handful of governments and corporations that could even think of funding an undertaking of such proportion. So he began researching Craden F and its origins.
He was deep into the research when the news reached him; his brother had been killed in New York City. So he made his way secretly back into the country, crossing under the Rio Grande in a smuggler’s tunnel. He made his way to New York and began digging around to discover answers about his brother’s death. He discovered it had been a message. The killing had been used to lure him back into the states. Someone wanted him back in America.
He used what little money he had left to secure a room at the once grand Ritz Carlton under an assumed name. He knew it wouldn’t be long before someone came to finish him as well. Three days later he was poisoned eating noodles from a street vendor. The toxin worked slowly, and he knew that he couldn’t engineer a cure in time. He would die unnoticed in a small room on the fifth floor of the Ritz; a fitting end. William Newhouse had resigned himself to his fate. He stared at the ceiling. He knew he was going to die.
What he didn’t know was that someone else was looking for him. And unlike the rest of the world, they wanted him to live.
Chapter 1 - Discovery
The hidden attic was cold, which was highly unusual for a house built around the turn of the century. Someone had come back in and added additional insulation and a refrigerant system that was tied into the retrofit solar panels and HVAC system. An ingenious and well hidden piping system had kept the home owners from even realizing it was there. But with the unseasonable temperatures caused by “global warming” and the summer heat wave, a refrigerant line burst and coolant had soaked the backside of the living room walls. A HVAC tech was called in to correct the problem, and while trying to make repairs, the attic was discovered. The authorities were contacted immediately, and an ambulance was dispatched. At first it was assumed that the owners of the house were culpable, but the system had not been touched in years and it was determined that the attic had not been disturbed.
But questions remained…and those questions were profound. The discovery at the corner house on Blackbird Lane was compelling and mysterious. For there within the cold sarcophagus lay a woman…cryogenically suspended. She appeared in her mid twenties, and was uninjured upon superficial inspection. DNA and retinal identification came back negative, but old style fingerprinting produced a positive match. In 2011 a woman had gone missing during the epidemic. It was assumed that she had died anonymously in a FEMA encampment, though relatives had maintained that she was still alive, and had been kidnapped. But with no call for ransom, or any demands, the case, though unsolved, was abandoned.
City records indicated that a man named Jonas Smith had owned the house about the time of the disappearance, but all methods to discover his whereabouts proved fruitless, though neighbors from the area claimed he died, or had committed suicide.
And so, Jane Rebecca Madison was rushed to a government medical center outside Baltimore where she was revived. It took nearly 6 weeks for her to completely gain her senses and another two weeks to regain her memory. She was kept in isolation until the news of her condition could be relayed to her properly.
For sixteen days after her memory returned Jane stayed in her suite at the hospital, unsure of what exactly had happened to her. She had told the doctors everything she could remember, but they still wouldn’t let her go home. She was frustrated by their apparent obfuscation, and confused by their use of terms and phrases in an accent she couldn’t quite place. They sounded oddly Latino to her, moving into certain Spanish colloquialisms from time to time, yet their English was impeccable. Then there was their clothing; they looked like the doctors she’d seen her whole life, yet they wore the clothes oddly, as if used to something else, and they were always masked, as if she had some disease. They assured her that she was fine, but she knew something wasn’t quite right.
Their instruments were foreign to her. They’d taken blood, but there had been no needle, only a small plastic device that was placed above her arm. There had been no puncture wound and only a small purple dot even gave her any indication of where the withdrawal site had been.
She read books mostly, on an electronic tablet, yet she couldn’t access the internet or any database. Her current reading list included the classics mostly, although there were several databases of late 20th century fiction. Jane had finished reading what had interested her by the end of the first week. Television was oddly absent, and although she’d requested some music, as yet, none had been forthcoming. She caught fragments of music occasionally when her door was open, but it wasn’t any artist she recognized. The view from her window gave her little indication of what was happening outside, there was an awning blocking her view of the sky, and directly across from her window was a view of the next building over. The small sliver of a view she did have was towards a park, but no one ever seemed to be there.
The room was spacious, most likely designed for two occupants, although Jane was alone. The walls were made from pale blue panels, each one marked with symbols Jane couldn’t identify in the bottom right corner. The ceiling was paneled in acoustic tile, but the lights were smaller than regular fluorescent lights and the light quality was cleaner and more natural that fluorescent. There was a bathroom near the entrance, and all the fixtures were there, but the faucets and toilet worked automatically. The bed was comfortable, and supported the body so that there was no discomfort while sleeping, and it automatically adjusted itself whenever Jane shifted. It was as though all the minor ergonomic problems had been solved in the small suite she now occupied.
Larger problems still existed; questions that had not been answered still loomed in her mind. The truth would come as a shock that even she could not imagine.
Thus the first of many secrets came to light, and the fight to regain our humanity began. In the year 2032 Jane Madison came back to life, and with her came a renewed hope from those who had been tasked to watch for her.
But questions remained…and those questions were profound. The discovery at the corner house on Blackbird Lane was compelling and mysterious. For there within the cold sarcophagus lay a woman…cryogenically suspended. She appeared in her mid twenties, and was uninjured upon superficial inspection. DNA and retinal identification came back negative, but old style fingerprinting produced a positive match. In 2011 a woman had gone missing during the epidemic. It was assumed that she had died anonymously in a FEMA encampment, though relatives had maintained that she was still alive, and had been kidnapped. But with no call for ransom, or any demands, the case, though unsolved, was abandoned.
City records indicated that a man named Jonas Smith had owned the house about the time of the disappearance, but all methods to discover his whereabouts proved fruitless, though neighbors from the area claimed he died, or had committed suicide.
And so, Jane Rebecca Madison was rushed to a government medical center outside Baltimore where she was revived. It took nearly 6 weeks for her to completely gain her senses and another two weeks to regain her memory. She was kept in isolation until the news of her condition could be relayed to her properly.
For sixteen days after her memory returned Jane stayed in her suite at the hospital, unsure of what exactly had happened to her. She had told the doctors everything she could remember, but they still wouldn’t let her go home. She was frustrated by their apparent obfuscation, and confused by their use of terms and phrases in an accent she couldn’t quite place. They sounded oddly Latino to her, moving into certain Spanish colloquialisms from time to time, yet their English was impeccable. Then there was their clothing; they looked like the doctors she’d seen her whole life, yet they wore the clothes oddly, as if used to something else, and they were always masked, as if she had some disease. They assured her that she was fine, but she knew something wasn’t quite right.
Their instruments were foreign to her. They’d taken blood, but there had been no needle, only a small plastic device that was placed above her arm. There had been no puncture wound and only a small purple dot even gave her any indication of where the withdrawal site had been.
She read books mostly, on an electronic tablet, yet she couldn’t access the internet or any database. Her current reading list included the classics mostly, although there were several databases of late 20th century fiction. Jane had finished reading what had interested her by the end of the first week. Television was oddly absent, and although she’d requested some music, as yet, none had been forthcoming. She caught fragments of music occasionally when her door was open, but it wasn’t any artist she recognized. The view from her window gave her little indication of what was happening outside, there was an awning blocking her view of the sky, and directly across from her window was a view of the next building over. The small sliver of a view she did have was towards a park, but no one ever seemed to be there.
The room was spacious, most likely designed for two occupants, although Jane was alone. The walls were made from pale blue panels, each one marked with symbols Jane couldn’t identify in the bottom right corner. The ceiling was paneled in acoustic tile, but the lights were smaller than regular fluorescent lights and the light quality was cleaner and more natural that fluorescent. There was a bathroom near the entrance, and all the fixtures were there, but the faucets and toilet worked automatically. The bed was comfortable, and supported the body so that there was no discomfort while sleeping, and it automatically adjusted itself whenever Jane shifted. It was as though all the minor ergonomic problems had been solved in the small suite she now occupied.
Larger problems still existed; questions that had not been answered still loomed in her mind. The truth would come as a shock that even she could not imagine.
Thus the first of many secrets came to light, and the fight to regain our humanity began. In the year 2032 Jane Madison came back to life, and with her came a renewed hope from those who had been tasked to watch for her.
Chapter 0 - The Setting
The future is not set, the near future however, is inevitable. The statistics of millions can be sampled in a very few, and the curve will remain the same. We are not interested in the fat of the curve. We are interested in the outer edges. The further from the median, the closer we come to certain truths not discernible to the majority. It is in these lonely avenues of thought that the investigation takes place.
We are there, just a few short decades removed from the choices that damned us, in a future where man is a slave to progress without a goal, a slave to a system without direction, a slave to a time running short. We sit in our homes, kings of a new modernity, waiting for our thoughts to be given to us; by our entertainers, our politics, our religions, and our gods. We have failed in the teachings of those wisest among us, replaced wisdom with science, replaced the love of God with the love of things. The circus maximus continues in the cages and the rings, and in the oval tracks and the laugh tracks. We have forgotten how to think as individuals, and instead use a collective mindset to create our world. The true genius has been left to wither while we give in to "the common good" and the "securing of freedoms".
Mankind's push forward has brought us mere steps away from two futures. One leads to the death of the soul, the other leads towards destruction. Like the edge of a razor blade, a line between the two choices exists, a path that can never be followed leads towards salvation. But since it cannot be followed, due to greed, and pride, and the pantheon of evils that men visit upon themselves, the future must look towards an acceptable alternative. How far from salvation we land is up to the few who know the path and where they wish to see it go.
The future is not set, and here and now we must try to shift the future because tomorrow is going to hurt, yet one thousand tomorrows away can still be saved. There are those who wish to see us burn, to fulfill the prophecies of old. There are those with no beliefs that would turn us all to slaves of the new gods. There are those who wish to see a world at peace, at the cost of the souls of all peoples. And there are those who know the truth yet cannot turn the tide, the fools, the mystics, the seekers. They must try to fight an overwhelming wave of diversion blinding the ignorant and the timid from the light of truth.
It is in this world that we find ourselves...a place where the only thing to fear is finding out that the world is merely a lie.
We are there, just a few short decades removed from the choices that damned us, in a future where man is a slave to progress without a goal, a slave to a system without direction, a slave to a time running short. We sit in our homes, kings of a new modernity, waiting for our thoughts to be given to us; by our entertainers, our politics, our religions, and our gods. We have failed in the teachings of those wisest among us, replaced wisdom with science, replaced the love of God with the love of things. The circus maximus continues in the cages and the rings, and in the oval tracks and the laugh tracks. We have forgotten how to think as individuals, and instead use a collective mindset to create our world. The true genius has been left to wither while we give in to "the common good" and the "securing of freedoms".
Mankind's push forward has brought us mere steps away from two futures. One leads to the death of the soul, the other leads towards destruction. Like the edge of a razor blade, a line between the two choices exists, a path that can never be followed leads towards salvation. But since it cannot be followed, due to greed, and pride, and the pantheon of evils that men visit upon themselves, the future must look towards an acceptable alternative. How far from salvation we land is up to the few who know the path and where they wish to see it go.
The future is not set, and here and now we must try to shift the future because tomorrow is going to hurt, yet one thousand tomorrows away can still be saved. There are those who wish to see us burn, to fulfill the prophecies of old. There are those with no beliefs that would turn us all to slaves of the new gods. There are those who wish to see a world at peace, at the cost of the souls of all peoples. And there are those who know the truth yet cannot turn the tide, the fools, the mystics, the seekers. They must try to fight an overwhelming wave of diversion blinding the ignorant and the timid from the light of truth.
It is in this world that we find ourselves...a place where the only thing to fear is finding out that the world is merely a lie.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)