I fell toward the planet as if through a vision; for though my view altered as I moved, I felt nothing, neither wind, rain, nor friction. Because I felt nothing I found it difficult to believe that what I saw all around me was real. My scanner informed me that it was, but I did not trust its report.
I passed through Eleutheria’s outer atmosphere in an instant. One instant later I burst through the clouds into a clear sky. I could not see any horizon because everywhere I looked my view was blocked by something that was alive: huge flocks of birds; thousand meter high trees; vast herds of animals; and seas that were bursting with fish.
As I drew closer to the planet’s surface, the arc of my trajectory altered. I no longer fell but instead raced above a forest canopy toward a rising sun. After a few moments my movement slowed; then I gently began to float down onto a flat, dusty triangle at the conjunction of three roads. At the entrance to each road was a gate, one opened onto wilderness; one onto forest. The third gate faced a grassland and a distant mountain range.
I landed beside Sadhu Jain. He was more substantial than the projection I had seen on the Quark, though barely so: his eyes were watery and unfocused, his dreadlocks were wild, his sari was tattered, and his deportment was loose.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“This is the plaza of the Three Gates. It is the entrance to our world.”
“What do you mean? Is this some kind of test?” I asked.
“No more than any other experience”, the Sadhu replied. He walked to the gate that faced the mountain range. I followed while he spoke to me over his shoulder, “These gates lead to aspects of our world that you must experience before we will allow you to explore any further”. He spoke without a trace of affect in his voice, but the moment he finished speaking a gigantic flock of birds punctuated his words with a cacophonous roar.
I followed the Sadhu through a trellised gate adorned with ancient vines, broad leaves and succulent grapes. “Do you have a name for this gate?” I inquired.
He replied, “We call it Karma. It is the beginning of the path that leads to where you are now.”
As the Sadhu spoke, he gestured for me to follow him, which I did. I was still enclosed in an atmospheric bubble, so I floated rather than walked. When I passed through the gate everything became blurry, then the scene before me gradually resolved into an urban area, a city or town, probably the latter because there were pedestrians and cyclists and animal-drawn carts, but none of the large structures one associates with dense urban areas.
I was no longer on Eleutheria, but instead was in the town of Elen on the planet Anktrope, where I took my doctorate in cultural anthropology, met my wife, purchased my first house, and for the first and only time in my life settled down.
The scene I was in was more like a dream than a simulation. Although there were sounds and colors, the former never resolved into anything as specific as speech, and the latter were vibrant and smeared, more like an abstract painting than a representation. But this description is also inaccurate because there was a vividness to my experiences despite the uncertainty of my senses.
I had returned to the moment when my life was in balance between potential and achievement. I had just received my degree and been offered a posting at Elen University. It was the day of my graduation, my engagement party and the closing on my suburban dream house.
I knew what I wanted and where I was going, and had set myself up to acquire it all. Or perhaps I should say my grasping had direction and focus.
Returning to this scene after one hundred years, I could not help but notice an infinitesimal disquiet caused by the space between my conception of the arc my life should follow and the path I had taken. I now think of this as a materialist asymptote: I wanted it all and was never satisfied with less, could never achieve infinity and so kept striving. A hungry ghost.
I’m wandering away from my story.
The trigger for my disquiet, what most unsettled me about the vision Sadhu Jain was showing me, was music. The band was playing an atonal symphony composed explicitly to celebrate my achievements. I once loved atonal music because its lack of (apparent) structure gave listeners so much potential. What unsettled both was that the commissioned piece the band played was very abstract. Listening to it made me think that even though I had actualized so many of my dreams the result was more a vivid illusion than real.
That moment of disquiet was a seed that once sprouted grew quickly and persistently, ultimately eroding the foundations of my life: my work and my family.
I blinked. When I opened my eyes I was back with Sadhu Jain at the Plaza of Three Gates. The Karma gate, which we had just passed through, was to my left. We faced the middle gate, which was difficult to focus on because it shimmered. Initially, I thought this was because of a problem with my eyes, perhaps as a result of my recent journey; then I attributed the shifting images to distortions caused by heat and humidity. I looked more closely and saw that both of my hypotheses were wrong: the physical structure of the gate was actually changing.
“What do you call this?”, I asked.
“This gate is called Maya, which is our word for illusion.”
My office phone rang and I answered. A voice boomed, “Dick, I need a war!”
“Vice President Dick Cheney’s office”, I politely replied. “Who may I say is calling?”
“Demon. James Demon.”
It is assumed by Christians and atheists alike that Vice President Cheney has sold his immortal soul to one dark lord or another. As a result, I expect that when the Rapture comes our dear VP will be whisked away to hell by Asmodeus or Mephistopheles, or perhaps even Sauron. Demon struck me as a bit too generic a name. I wondered if it was an alias.
“I’ll put you right through, Mr. Demon”, I said.
Dick picked up his phone. I put mine on mute so that I could listen in.
“Dick, I need a war!” Demon’s voice boomed a second time.
“Yeah, yeah, tell me about your problem, Jamie.”
“You know my bank is long on state-sponsored violence. Well this summer one of our new traders went a little too long and we’re out of the money on some of our September options. So …”
“How are we going to pay for this war of yours?” the VP interrupted brusquely, to the point, as always.
Demon replied, “We’ll squeeze the poor. Our people in Congress are all on board.”
“Hrmph.” The Vice President replied. “Nothing humanitarian, right? Just profit?”
“Of course its just about money, Dick. I’m a fucking banker. But here is the deal.” Demon spoke these last syllables in a terse, staccato fashion. “This war needs to be land-based so it uses lots mine resistant vehicles.”1
“So you’re flogging that mechanized infantry shit? Whatever. Call me when you’ve bought the votes.”
“Don’t call MRAPs shit. You want to go into battle with a Kamaz …”
“Have your people call Marge when you’re ready.”
Click.
Click.
“Shively, get your ass in here!”
I was so excited I fumbled the phone into its cradle. And who wouldn’t be prior to meeting the finest extra-legal mind of our generation?
Dick’s admin Marge (the real leader of the free world, according to some) smiled as I threw on my jacket, straightened my tie and rushed into Dick’s simple but large corner office. On one wall was a six foot portrait of Richard Nixon, on the other a picture of President Clinton, which Dick liked to use for target practice. Facing me was a glass wall which had a great view of the Rose Garden. It was spring. The cherry trees on the edge of the garden were flowering; the rose bushes were covered in buds, presaging a cheery, hopeful future. For a moment I was taken out of time: this could have been the office of a satrap, vizier or mandarin, and I guess in his dyspeptic, cantankerous way that is exactly what the Dick Cheney was, though with an in interest in oil and natural gas, rather than figs and maidens.
The Vice President started to speak before I’d sat down. He said, “Shively, one of our clients wants a war, or at least a police action.” Dick likes to call the military-industrial complex our clients.
“Will a straight up arms deal do?” I asked earnestly.
“Yep. Do you have any suggestions? Maybe invade Basra and break the oil union there?”
“Well, in theory the Mahdi Army are allies …”
“Ahem.” The Vice President can convey so much with his phlegm.
“Erstwhile allies”, I amended. “Regardless, attacking the Mahdi Army might send the wrong message. And there’s a small problem with the British.”
“Fuck the British”, he said reflexively.
“Basra’s in their theater of operations.”
“Right. I guess that’s what I pay you for. What about one of the Stans? Maybe Tajikistan? They’ve got lots of natural gas.” Dick has a soft spot for meddling in Soviet successor states.
“Uh, right”, I replied tentatively. “We already have mercenaries and drilling sub-contractors in Tajikistan, so I assume you’re suggesting escalating our presence. Perhaps we could take out President Rahmon? That would stir things up.”
“Fuck that idea. Too complicated. How about Iran?”
I replied that starting a war with Iran was a disproportionate solution to the problem at hand. Dick agreed. This was a career making moment. I needed an alternative plan. I fell back on my training. “What would John Galt do right now?” I wondered, drawing a blank. Unfortunately, Ayn Rand never addressed the issue of corporate-sponsored wars. Then I had an idea, “Sir, if I may be so bold …”
“Spit it out, Shively.”
“What about an arms deal with Islam Karimov in Uzbekistan? There’s been a lot of trouble recently in Andijan.”
The VP was impressed. “It solves Demon’s MRAP problem – mechanized infantry are perfect for crushing popular unrest. But what’s the fossil fuel angle?” Dick is a fly to shit about fossil fuels.
“There’s no oil to speak of in Uzbekistan. But there’s lots of natural gas.”
“That’ll do. Good work, Shively.”
Vice President Richard Cheney, leader of the free world, swiveled the folds of his cellulite-ridden ass into action. He shouted into his intercom, “Margaret, get that dipstick on the phone!”
“Do you mean President Bush, sir?”
“No, the Brit.”
“Prime Minister Blair?”
“No, the other dipstick. The peasant revolt guy.”
“Jack Straw?”
“Yeah, him.”
There was a pause while the Vice President was connected to Downing Street.
Once connected, the Vice President snarled into his speaker-phone, “Jack, its Dick Cheney. I need your help. We’re trying to sell some light armor in Central Asia. Yeah, MRAPs. I know they’re only good for crushing civilian unrest, but that’s what my clients want me to sell. I’m sending an agent named Shively to Uzbekistan to broker the deal. Can your people help? Of course you’ll get a cut. Would you prefer arms sales, land-rights or kickbacks? I agree. Arms sales are cleanest. We’ll settle the details when we meet at the next G7. Sure. What your agent’s name, again? Adelia? My man’s named Shively. My admin Marg will set things up.”
The VP hung up, scribbled some names onto a piece of paper, and then turned to me. “Shively, here’s a list of contacts. Let Margaret know if you need anything. And I mean anything. Demon is an important client.”
When he finished speaking Dick started to cough as if trying to regurgitate both his stomach and his intestines. This commotion caused me to closely examine the pasty-faced troll. He looked terrible. It was amazing that he was alive at all. “Fuck this shit!” the Vice President shouted while he pulled himself together with a loud hork. I realized then that even something as debilitating as dyspepsia can give you strength.
“Shively!”
“Huh”, I replied smartly.
“Stop looking at me like I’m a hot Congressional Page and move your ass. We’ve got to sell some product.”