South of Maya - Third Chapter

III

 

“The world illusion, maya, is individually called avidya, literally, "not-knowledge," ignorance, delusion.  Maya or avidya can never be destroyed through intellectual conviction or analysis, but solely through attaining the interior state of nirbikalpa samadhi.” 

Paramhansa Yogananda

       The assignment started right after Mann pulled himself out of the creamy ocean waves off the coast of Madagascar, wrapped himself in a towel and sat on the rocks.  Catching his breath, he watching the shimmering reflection of the newly-risen sun like a broad golden pathway from the horizon, ending, improbably, magically, at exactly the shoreline below his feet.  A dolphin had followed him for the last mile of his swim, and now it swam back and forth as if confused by the strange human’s disappearance from the water into some new dimension.  Where had it gone?

       Mann reached down to his backpack and sipped a brew of local herbs with strong stimulants that the Antambahoaka holy man had created especially for his metabolism.  A two-hour swim before breakfast had, sadly, become his only exercise routine these past few months.

       Behind him, in the house, three extraordinary women still slept.  Soon they would wake up to fix breakfast, and find him missing, with no explanation.  This had happened before, and they would not worry.

       As he contemplated the sunrise, Mann’s phone rang.

       “Yes?”

       “Let’s cut the smalltalk crap already,” a woman’s harsh voice interjected.  “I need to know if you’re the right person for a job we have to get done in a hurry.”

       “Job?”

       “This is you, isn’t it?  Retired intelligence service, many internal accolades--which, of course, meant nothing to you.  Served in central Asia and the Middle East, a year in Kashmir, a highly-classified mission to Syria--”

       “How could you possibly know that?” Mann blurted out.  Looking back, he would realize that this was one of the few times in his life where he’d lost his composure.  He looked at the phone.  “Who the hell are you?”

       “If that were important, I would have already told you,” the woman’s voice said.  “It’s a remarkable record.  But what I want to know is: why did you leave the service?”

       Mann sipped his brew.

       “It was time to retire.” he said.  “They offered a very generous pension.”

       “Strike one,” the voice on the other end of the line said in a voice so cold that the phone felt frosty in his hand.  “Care to tell me the real reason, or are we both wasting our time?”

       “I was bored.  You cannot imagine how boring field work really is.”

       “That is your second strike.  I dislike being lied to.”

       “Maybe if you told me who you are--?”

       “Someone who is increasingly less likely to be your next employer, unless you provide me with a plausible answer.”

       “Did I mention that I’m not looking for work?  If you’re with Chindian alliance--”

       “We’re a privately held corporation located in San Diego.  And we’re on the trail of something that could save the world from itself.”

       “And, of course, you expect me to believe that.”

       But something in the woman’s voice did make him believe it.  And somehow she knew it.  She let the silence linger, and suddenly Mann felt a chill run through his body, as if he was passing through a ghost. 

       He looked out at the ocean, over the horizon, and his eyes glazed over.

       “I made the mistake of looking at the bigger picture, and suddenly I no longer believed in my work,” Mann said evenly.  “I realized that I was helping the world move inexorably toward a global confrontation that had--has, I should say--the potential to send humanity back to the caves.  I care about this idiotic planet,” he said softly.  “I care about it even though I have no rational reason to do so.  And I don’t believe you or anybody else is going to stop our insane march over a very steep cliff and prevent the senseless annihilation of billions of innocents who deserve far better than what their leaders are giving them.  I doubt you can imagine how sad that makes me.”

       “That’s all I needed to know,” the other voice had said promptly.  “Turn on your computer.  We’re sending over a contract.  By the time you’ve finished reading it, a plane will be waiting for you.”

       As the private jet arched into the sky over Antananarivo and eased through the sound barrier, Mann told his mobile device to call up the contract once again.

       “Would you like me to read you the entire 116 pages?” the computer asked pleasantly.

       “No.  Scan pages 73 to 107 for interpretation.”

       “Done,” the pleasant voice said promptly.

       “And?”

       “The company requires your complete discretion of all things that you--”

       “A briefer interpretation.”

       “If you reveal, to any outside party, anything whatsoever about the existence of this contract, or the work you do for the company or even the fact that you visited the company headquarters, your assets and your life are voluntarily forfeit.”

       “My life?”

       “Under certain provisions in Article 14, Section 7 of the International Legal Code, it is possible to renounce your right to life via legal contract, subject to interpretation--”

       “Okay.  All right.  And it’s offering me twice as much money as I’ve made in my entire career for--read and interpret again for me.”

       “For two days of your time.”

       “Two days.”

       “Yes.” The computer, naturally, betrayed no emotion.

       “Is that a misprint?”

       “Unlikely.  The time period of the contract is mentioned on pages 2, 7, 23, twice on page 46, and again--”

       “And it doesn’t say what I’ll be doing over that two-day period.”

       “No.”

       “Fine.  Take me to the discussion/information trove C11XY38592.”

       “I’m sorry.  That Internet location does not exist.”

       “Scan my palm print.”

       “The host computer is telling me that you are no longer allowed access to that information.”

       “Activate host computer destruction sequence Phi, 9, Xi, Gamma, 39, W, 118, Mu--”

       “I have the site available now.  The computer is asking me not to recall any aspect of our interaction during access.”

       “Comply in the strictest possible interpretation with the request.  Make the host computer aware of this command.  And tell it to stop whining.”

       “Done.”

       “What is it telling you?”

       “There are messages regarding this company which are classified at a very deep level, mostly dealing with the extreme necessity to protect the secrecy of the company’s most recent project.  Other messages refer to funding in a general sense, with the admonition that money be very carefully diverted from various military budget line items in order to ensure that Congress and its various oversight committees are not aware of the company or its manner of financial support.”

       “What does the company do, exactly?”

       “Basic research into computer technology.”

       “Does the Chindian Alliance know about it?”

       “There are no messages to that effect.  Would you like me to scan Chindian intercepts?”

       “Yes.”

       “There is some indication that Chindian agents have searched for a project that bears the same general description.”

       “And?”

       “They are no longer alive.”

       Mann leaned back and thought for a long second.

       “Can you find a list of employees at the company?”

       “I have the list now.”

       “Anybody I would know?”

       “Are you familiar with the Stanford University faculty?”

       “Not really.”

       “William Procter Prize award winners?  There are three of them.”

       “No.”

       “Pulitzer prize for literature?”

       “What?”

       “Dr. Michael Westerly, SRI International president, winner of the Robert H. Goddard Alumni Award, first book of poetry entitled Quantum Verses published six years ago at age 50, and he has published two volumes every year since then.  Pulitzer prize winner with Conversations with a Strange Quark.  From the Fuzzy Bottom of the Black Hole, has been nominated for the Nobel Prize.” 

       “Find the latter book.”

       “Done.”

       “Read me some passages.  At random.”

       “As you wish.” 

 

       We approach the end

       of all confusion

       the end

       of reflection on our purpose

       the end

       of love’s gentle mysteries

       the end

       of our experiment in time

       Farewell to self-delusion and

       the all-too-familiar image in the mirror

       To butterflies fluttering over the asphalt

       Farewell to lullabies and hope

       To every promise made

       Let us read a bedtime story

       And bleed our imagined destiny

       Into the deepest corner

       Of our graves...

 

       “Something more recent,” Mann requested.

       “Certainly.  This was posted less than a week ago on the Internet.  It will be part of the next collection.”

 

       You who pass by this vaporous, expanding cloud

       Evidencing the crowning achievement of our species

       who proudly engineered our loving planet’s demise.

       Stop a while, read in our world’s molecular debris

       The terrible epitaph of our mortal enterprise.

       The engraved summation of all we used to be

       That we were so, so much smarter

              Than we were wise...

 

       At the airport, Mann engaged an enclosed autocycle with reclining seats, programmed his destination and lay back, allowing the screen to provide the day’s news while the cycle circled the waterfront toward Harbor Island.  The media blogs, as always, were filled with stories of international tension with the Chindian Alliance.  A military analyst soberly concluded that Chindia held a dangerous edge not only in firepower, but also weapons technology.  An editorial talked about the catastrophic implications of a global war using the next generation of fusion incinerary drones--and, as usual, the reporter had no idea that newer weapons existed which made these armed drones look like sparklers on the 4th of July. 

       Another op-ed piece warned of a sneak attack by agents posing as tourists, carrying individual bombs the size of a suitcase that were capable of remarkable damage.  Mann knew that both sides were now capable of fitting something into a suitcase capable of vaporizing a city and its most densely-populated suburbs. 

       There was footage of pro-war rallies across the United States.

       The stalemate continued.  Mann knew that this two-day engagement had something to do with it.