Ignorance is Hell (working title)
The beginning of a sci-fi short story which I may turn into a novella. I haven't edited it so excuse possible grammatical errors, but I am quite happy with how it is turning out so far. I hope you enjoy it. Criticism is welcome and appreciated.
They were choking each other and rolling across the floor. Flailing fists were the highlight of the night, but it was getting more and more intense as their tempers grew like rapidly inflating balloons.
Bullsoxe Bar seemed to bounce up and down as they fought. The patrons were wild with excitement and surrounded the brawlers in a drunken circle, toasting and spilling beer onto the floor. Two cops were sitting in a corner of the bar and sipped dark stouts slyly. The cops were waiting for one of them – the one pinned down -- to get killed. They observed the patrons and watched the cheering suddenly break by a firecracker of silence. One cop looked at his watch.
“Any last words?” said the fighter.
“Please! No!” said the one pinned down. The fighter choked him.
He died. The cheering was restored. A woman let out a howl and ripped off her top, parading around the bar, as the cops were dragging the sunken balloon out of the bar. They threw him into a trash can in the back of the building and went far. Far away.
In a laboratory deep underground, beneath a barn, a loud beeping was heard. The scientists dropped their coffees, books, newspapers and whatever else they were holding and rushed to the testing room where the beeping was incessant. A red light was flashing through a slit at the back of the man’s metal skull. They gazed.
“Oh my god,” one of them said as the metal man, Silicon Consciousness Subject Number 34, moved an arm. The red light stopped, the beeping stopped, and now there was a hum. The metal man turned a rosy tan. Ears, a nose and a mouth birthed against the luminescent face, and soon a T-shirt and jeans formed. One of the braver scientists ran a finger across his nose and mouth. It was still metal, but looked like a face. It was warm and still humming a bit.
The metal man moved around the room now and scientists were speechless. They gave him room. He walked like a man made from metal imaginably would. He was clunky and awkward, but his one feature which was real – his eyes, transplanted from a dog’s – looked about like a wondrous child.
The scientists were in the observance room, clapping and cheering, their lab coats creating a whirlwind of white. They looked at this metal man, this advent of science which was in retrospect a miracle, moving about and observing its environment. Their life changing achievement of recreating a dead life, after the stampede of moral high-horses and numerous failed experiments, was undoubtedly the hallmark of their careers. And Menteith Black, the lead scientist on this brave project, was in the communications room conversing through the master screen to the President of United Commune State 001 and the Prime Counsellor of the United Commune.
“The test was successful. John Adams was murdered in the Bulloxe Bar and the silicon memory chip in his brain transferred his life – his past, his feelings, his intelligence – to a silicon replica.” The metal man. “We’ve done it,” Menteith said, gallantly. “We’ve resurrected a human being. We’ve transferred a soul from an organic body to a silicon body.”
The President was congratulatory. “This is remarkable,” he said, “and I’d like to meet with you in person as soon as possible to discuss your team’s success further. You know what this means for State 001? So many things. But remember,” he continued, “this remains absolutely confidential to the public.” Of course, the Prime Counsellor was apprehensive, being the moral guide of the entire experiment. “I didn’t think you’d actually do it, Black,” he said, “but you did. We’ll need to speak further about this, too, and I’ll be holding a meeting for all the top States fairly soon. Don’t get too happy about it yet,” was his finish, and signed off. The President gave Menteith congratulations again and signed off.
When Menteith arrived in the observance room, he found the scientists pouring soda pop into styrofoam cups – for that was all they had -- and toasting. They turned their attention to Menteith and one scientist gave him a cup full of cola. “It wouldn’t have been possible without you, sir,” said Carson Wells, one of the designers of the silicon chip that was implanted in John Adams’ brain.
Menteith made a speech before toasting again, his attention wavering between the metal man on the screen and the joyful scientists. “You all know how proud of you I am,” he said, “and I’m as awfully excited as you are. But there are still things to be considered. We need to ensure that Johnston and Spencer are safe.”
“Safe from?” said a voice in the crowd, who received many ugly glares. Menteith sighed and continued, “safe from being traced back to us, obviously!” Menteith saw where the voice came from, and to his utmost surprise it was his second-in-command, Jason Panier. Jason blushed, looking down at his cola, and Menteith gave him a look as if to say, Are you an idiot? “Impersonating police officers in a bar, even bars as notorious for witnessing fights and murders as the Bullsoxe, is risky, and as you know, this whole experiment has been risky. That Adams’ body is disposed so that nothing is traced back to us is of utmost importance as well. Most of all, however…” he paused. “We need to execute Julian Gray.”
Julian Gray! repeated the scientists. They chattered amongst themselves. That shady man who they’d hired to do the deed, to murder John Adams in the style of what seemed to drunken witnesses like just another bar fight. Menteith didn’t want any kidnappings, any set ups, no, that would be shady. The subjects must be completely ignorant to this experiment, he’d say, or we get shut down. It’s that simple. So Adams was ignorant. He thought the silicon chip was just a tracking device they paid him to test for a military operation. So what do you wanna track me for? he’d ask. I haven’t been outta’ the country or even the city for god’s sake in years.
Science.
Oh, I see where yer goin.’ I’m like the mouse in yer wheel, yeah?
Exactly. But you’re getting paid with more than cheese.
“We can’t just let authorities handle him?” said Jason Panier.
“Jason, Jason,” now with contempt, “I think we’d all enjoy it if you’d just shut your mouth.” Menteith continued, “of course not. No one except for a few intoxicated witnesses who nobody will believe will know of this murder, and therefore, the public will stay ignorant of this experiment. It is in these final stages,” he went off on a tangent, “that ignorance is in fact bliss.
“Which is why Julian must be dealt with. And our metal man here will do it.” Menteith pointed at the screen where the metal man was still moving about.
A confused babble now roared as the celebration deflated into scheming and nonsense. “With all due respect, sir,” said Carson Wells, “Silicon Consciousness Subject 34 is self-aware and, if our engineering was successful, believes he is John Adams, but his motor skills are barely developed yet. In other words, he has thoughts, but--"
“Jesus Christ almighty,” Menteith was beat red. Carson sunk and thought he said something stupid, though he and the other scientists knew what he said was true: the metal man’s full potential had not yet been fulfilled. There was a silence. “I apologize,” Menteith told the scientists. “I just,” he paused, then continued curtly, “I’ve been overwhelmed by this whole thing as you all have been. Take the night off, talk amongst yourselves and we’ll figure this out soon enough. We’ll meet here tomorrow morning and we’ll analyze Subject 34.”
The scientists dispersed in white clouds, discarding their cups in the trash can and mumbling to each other. Menteith took a first sip of his cola, which was flat, and just about spit it on the observance monitors. Get the metal man to murder Julian Gray? What was I thinking? he thought to himself as he laughed hysterically.
“Was what I said really that funny, Menty?” said Jason Panier suddenly. “I’ve never seen you like that before.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you, Jason. I was just laughing at, well, how absurd this whole thing is, that’s all,” Menteith replied. His old face was pug-like with exhaustion.
“Well, I’ll be in my living quarters taking your advice. Getting my thoughts together.”
“We’ll probably be called to a meeting in a few days with the Prime Counsellor of the United Commune and a few other higher-ups we know.”
“Do they want us to bring the metal man?”
“Probably. I don’t know. But we need to get Johnston and Spencer out of that motel and back here safely, and we need to track down Julian and kill him." Though he had no intention of doing the latter. I'll keep Jason and the others thinking that. Just for the hell of it, Menteith thought.
“You know, Menty, he’s a hired gun. He’s not going to tell anyone that he killed Adams and that we hired him,” Jason said, in a matter-of-fact tone.
Menteith groaned and flicked his hand at Jason, dismissing him. Jason shook his head and retreated to his living quarters.
All the scientists were sleeping, but at the same time weren’t, for their thoughts were hyper with the experiment. The experiment. It consumed their lives and they often found themselves acting as strange as Menteith just did. Patty Glackzon divorced her husband a month prior to finalizing the metal man prototype, and Jonathan Keeton, one of the technology researches who had often been found loafing off was found dying in his bathroom one morning. He had cut his wrists in the bath tub. Menteith sat on a recliner in his room reading Revelations. He was half reading; his thoughts wavered. How would he explain John Adams unlawful murder to the Prime Counsellor? How would he deal with Julian Gray? Could he really leave him be as Jason told him?
Menteith closed his book and suddenly thought, Why don’t I ask the metal man? He flew up from his chair and ran to the testing room. He flung open the door and saw the metal man sitting in a chair. He looked nervous.
“Wh-wh-who are you?” the metal man asked.
“I’m Menteith Black, the lead scientist on this experiment.” He ignored that the metal man was ignorant, too.
“Experiment? Where the hell am I?!” he shouted.
“Calm yourself—“
“No, no, tell me what the hell is goin on. The last thing I remember is a guy chokin me. I felt like I was gonna die…”
“You did die,” Menteith said.
“So this is Hell?”
“Yeah.” Menteith was playing with him now, sadistically, treating the metal man like an orphan lost in space. If this isn’t a miracle in science this certainly is fun, he thought to himself.
“And yer the Devil.” The metal man was strangely sure of it.
“Yes, yes,” nodded Menteith.
“I’m John,” he said, flashing smile and offering a hand. His teeth showed silver specks; he’d been grinding them.
“Pleasure,” Menteith said, shaking John’s hand.
“Y’know, I always knew I was goin to hell, kids at school always told me dat, but I always thought it’d be worse.”
The novelty had ended. Menteith grew bored of John, this moron, whether he was a miracle or not. That John was their doing still hadn’t penetrated Mentieth’s skull. He began to leave. “Will I see ya again?” John asked, and Menteith continued to leave.
Finally the reality resonated on Menteith when he flopped down on his bed. John was a human being. A boring, stupid one at that, but still a human being. And made from metal. It worked! Menteith thought. It worked! The sphere of creation, the dawn of time and life itself: we have bent it. We’ve skipped thousands of aeons twenty five stories beneath a barn!
Globes of tears formed. Still lying down, he clapped. He clapped and clapped. “Eureka,” he said under his breath, “Eureka.” Menteith slept like a piece of lumber that night. The other scientists were still weary, still restless.
At 5:00 AM, Jason Panier and a few other scientists conglomerated in the recreation room. More scientists heard footsteps in the middle of the night and followed. Menteith was not there. They brewed coffee, played ping pong and sat on the couches talking. But more than talking – talking about crucial research without Menteith’s supervision or admission. A cardinal rule, broken, for the first time.
“He’s insane,” one of the scientists playing ping pong said, referring to Menteith. “He’s old, has no family, probably on the verge of senility and this just overwhelmed him. I bet when he gets up he’ll be telling us to forget about this experiment and go home because ‘we all must be ignorant.’”
Some of them chuckled. Some of them were too exhausted to speak. There was a pause which begged for a change of subject. “How is our robot-resurrect, anyway?” Jason asked Carson Wells, as if Carson, resident ***-kisser, had all the answers.
“Um, well there’s a reason I firmly told everyone we have to avoid him in the 2 to 48 hour time frame he activates.” Of course, Jason forgot what Carson had apparently said; he must have thought he was sucking up to Menteith again and ignored him. “He’s susceptible to delusions in his current state and must be kept in isolation. His silicon brain fibres are still wiring themselves to replicate the dead John Adams’ state of mind.”
“What could happen if I walked in there right now and started a conversation with him?”
“It would damage his psyche. A lot. Although he becomes spatially self-aware at the 2 hour mark, and can talk, he doesn’t yet know his place in the social chain of things. His synapses are extremely fragile. A social encounter now can confuse him to no end.”
“Okay. Was just wondering. Thanks.” Jason replied.
When a ping pong ball flew across the room and silence permeated, the recreation room grew awkward. Scientists stood twiddling their lab coats, taking small sips of coffee, staring into empty, black, raw space. They missed their families. They missed watching movies with their husbands and wives or going to the beach with their kids. They poured eight months – or was it ten? – into transferring the soul from a meat casing to a metal one. And there was a longing for exploding out of the hidden hatch in the barn from where they arrived and running. Just running. Away from this.
And one scientist heard it. Then a few more, and then all of them. The footsteps of the harrowing dungeon master coming down the main hall, approaching the recreation room. The opening of the door by the senile monster who kept them in his belly. He picked up the ping pong ball which had flown across the room. He scanned the nervous faces.
“You’ve been playing ping pong without me?” he said.
Some chuckled. Some of them were too exhausted to speak. There was a pause which begged for a change of subject. Menteith changed it. “Just kidding. This is highly, highly, highly unorthodox! In my chambers! Now!” Menteith always changed it.
