Meeting With The Anarchist
DAMON HAD KEPT JOURNALS, BUT THEY COULDN'T HELP GABRIEL MUCH.
Every so often, whenever Gabe's "spells" came back--that's what everyone in the family called them, his "spells"--Damon would thumb through his journals, poring over everything he'd ever written for years. No one had seen the journals but him. It wasn't that he was especially private. He just didn't think anybody would believe them.
Right now he picked up the journal he'd kept in 1986 and looked through it. It was the usual, things he'd done that day, people he'd met, pictures he'd taken, drawings of things that popped into his head--and, of course, many of them were disk-shaped.
He stopped on June 7 and started reading. [Note--just an odd unrelated coincidence here--this date is the day after my character Damien's birthday! And 1986 was the year Dami's twin sister Lilu was murdered--a week and a day BEFORE their birthday, I believe. Huh! Also, an ONTOPIC note--the following journal entry is not in italics in the original file, but in a different font, "Scribble." It's a scribbly/handwriting-type font. The computer I created this file on didn't have this font, but the one I'm on now does; however, since it might not be a standard font, I'm not going to use it here. I used to mix-and-match fonts but now I realize it's very unprofessional. And just plain hard to read. BTW, an old old note tacked up above the computer lists the different fonts I used in this story--Times New Roman (along with Verdana, my standard), 12 (from a set of numbered fonts I no longer possess as they were on floppies), Chaucer (an old fave which was probably used for the chapter headers), Moderne, and Scribble.]
June 7 1986
Sometimes I wonder if things would have been better had I stayed out instead of listening to Gabe and going back in. What if I'd made him follow me? But then again, they could probably have just come right after us. They can do pretty much whatever they want.
Why Gabe? There's nothing extremely special about him; I can think of dozens of other people they'd probably prefer, people with weird genetic diseases if they want to check up on that, people at the peak of their health if that's what they need them for. Gabe is neither. He's just an average person. But then again, I suppose they need to use examples of every class.
But why didn't they take me?
He stopped reading, thinking over it for a moment, and then continued flipping through it. Nothing much of help; all he could do was sit and observe, just like everybody else.
Except them.
Yes, he had to admit, except them. They did anything but sit and observe.
He sighed and tossed the notebook into its crate; it was unusual for him to be careless, everything had its place, but then again these were unusual circumstances.
Gabe had said no, no, a dozen times no to hypnotherapy. He did not want to have to go through that again, even if he did half of his life anyway. But Damon was starting to think maybe it was the only way after all.
He decided it was time to call Al.
Alexander Goodwin, alias Al, wasn't within sight when Damon arrived at his house. Damon had knocked and knocked, with no answer, and so had tried the door and found it unlocked. He stepped inside and noticed immediately what a mess the place was. It wasn't a disaster area; it was just cluttered and disorganized. All over the dining room table there were books and papers on such diverse subjects as past-life regression, aromatherapy, and UFOs. Especially UFOs. Damon brushed past these and into the next room. He decided this must be Al's living quarters, though they didn't resemble any normal person's living quarters. Then again, whenever was Al normal? Here there were bookshelves with more books and papers, an entertainment system (Al just went crazy when Damon introduced him to compact disks), and a table set up with a large recording machine and a video camera. The camera was, oddly, turned on. He ignored this fact (Al had always been a little scatterbrained, in his opinion) and proceeded on to the next room, looking back at the mess over his shoulder, and turned around to come face to face with a hideous, huge-eyed, tube-nosed creature.
Damon howled and jumped back. The creature jumped also, but started waving its hands and saying something which was muffled by the--
Gas mask?
Damon's heart started to slow down as the "creature" reached up and pulled off the gas mask to reveal Al, who ran his hand through his hair and smiled at Damon, holding out a hand.
"Sorry to give you a scare," he apologized, briskly shaking his hand. "What brings you here?"
"Did you know that your door is unlocked?" Damon asked, forgetting to even mention the gas mask.
"Is it? I'm going to have to remember that. Somebody broke in just the other day."
Damon was taken aback. "Broke in? Doesn't that scare you?"
Al just looked at him, hanging up the gas mask and putting on his ever-present California Angels baseball cap. [Note--no, Al isn't from California; he's from New Mexico...sort of. He just wears this cap because it has a big "A" on it.] "Should it?"
"Well, yeah, I think it should!"
"It's not like they took anything," Al said, walking out into the living room and checking on the video camera.
"But that's dangerous, leaving your door unlocked like that. Somebody could come in in the middle of the night and
(take you)
kill you in your sleep or something!"
Al looked up at him; it made Damon frustrated to see that, as usual, he didn't understand. It seemed that, whenever Al was concerned, no one could do any wrong. He bit his lip and returned to checking the camera.
"Hey, Damon, you're better with these things than I am; could you tell me just what it is that I'm doing wrong here?"
Damon sighed again; Al was a techno-freak but he couldn't tell a modem from a toaster. Damon wondered why he even tried.
"I really like this stuff," Al said suddenly as Damon helped him, and Damon felt unnerved by the fact that he hadn't even given voice to his thoughts, yet Al seemed to read him like an open book. "It really confuses the heck out of me but it's just so amazing what you can do with it all."
"Yeah, it is," Damon said, disconnecting one plug and substituting it with another.
"Well, you're not here to fix my camera, though it was a help," Al said, crossing his arms and studying what Damon was doing so he could remember it for later, "so why'd you come? I don't get many visitors." He paused thoughtfully and chuckled. "Except maybe that guy who broke in the other day."
"It's about Gabe," Damon replied, checking the camera's other attachments and making sure they were secure. [Note--Damon is an amateur photographer. Probably closer to semiprofessional. I know this is a videocamera, but it's similar, and I felt like saying that.]
Al frowned. "The panic attacks again?"
Damon nodded. That was what everybody called them. Though he, Gabe, and Al knew better. "Yesterday--he flipped out in the middle of class. They brought him to the first aid center. The doctor thought he had epilepsy or something."
"Hm." Al knelt down and stared curiously at what Damon was doing. "So what are you going to do now?"
"I was thinking maybe bring him here."
Al looked at Damon now, trying to determine if he were joking. Obviously deciding he was not, he sat back on his haunches. "Did Gabe agree?"
"No," Damon said, looking away slightly. He hated doing things covertly. "But I really think he needs it."
"But you know I can't do it if the subject is unwilling, Damon."
He hated that, too; Al's tone had turned just the slightest bit patronizing. [Note--I don't think that's the right word; Al isn't a superior smug person. I think I meant something akin to, he sounds like he's lecturing him, like Damon is ignorant or something.] Of course Damon knew all the idiosyncrasies of hypnotism; he'd only been Al's friend for years now. "I know that. But can't you think of any way to maybe make it so he's not so unwilling?"
He looked at Al. Al looked back in that aggravatingly neutral way of his, and after a moment shrugged. [Note--misuse of the word "aggravatingly," I know.] "I really don't know, Damon."
Damon sighed. "All right then. But if you do think of anything, you'll let me know, okay?"
Al nodded, then brightened as Damon stood up. "Thank you for repairing my camera," he said. "I'll have to remember how you did that. So it should work now? Good. I can get on with what I was doing then."
"One question," Damon said, suddenly remembering. "Why the gas mask?"
"Mask...?" Al said, puzzled. "Oh, mask! I was just doing some little tests on my green friends."
Damon smiled at that. Al never seemed to call the inhabitants of his back room "plants"; it was always his little "green friends." "Okay. Just wondering. See you later, Al."
"You too, Damon," Al said, and before Damon could get to the door, he saw that Al was already busy taking apart Damon's connections and doing them up again, experimenting. Always experimenting. Damon sighed and rolled his eyes, and left.
Later in the day Anders showed up at the Gen-X Club, the newest restaurant-slash-club on campus. He sat at the counter drinking a Nestea and looking around him. Sidras North, the woman behind the counter, was also a student at the college; right now she was washing the counter and humming off-key. Anders cleared his throat and put his head in his hand, fiddling with the bottlecap.
"Last night I had this really weird dream--" he started.
"Oh Lord, not you too!" Sid interrupted.
Anders looked up, surprised. "What do you mean, 'you too'?"
Sid sighed and leaned on the counter herself, rolling her eyes. "If I had a dime for every time somebody's told me that today, I could retire. You must be about the hundredth person who's told me that."
Anders frowned. "Hundredth?"
"Okay, okay, so maybe only the fifth. But you wouldn't believe how repetitious that gets!"
"Well, maybe it wasn't the same dream."
"You owe me a dollar if it is. Let me guess; you're walking around in a fog, and there's this light you can't see, and you hear these voices calling you. Oh, and there's this humming noise. And you keep walking around and you see this table with these little guys telling you to come here. Am I right?"
Anders only looked at her for a moment, and then numbly pulled a dollar out of his pocket and laid it on the countertop. Sid looked down at it, amazed, and then pushed it back.
"I was only kidding. I didn't think it could be true. At least, not again," she said.
"That's exactly right," he said. "Only then I thought I woke up, but it was another dream. You know, a dream inside a dream. And I looked in the mirror and they were still there." He leaned back on his stool. "Sid, just how many people've told you this?"
"I dunno. Five, I think. Not counting you. So probably six."
"And we all said the same thing?"
"Verbatim. Hey, Anders, is this some kind of weird joke? C'mon, if it is, let me in on it."
"Not that I know of. Who told you this dream so far?"
"Just about everybody who's come up and ordered something from me. I don't know most of them. Oh, Puck was one. He was here."
Anders looked puzzled. "Puck?"
Sid gaped at him. "You mean to tell me you've never met Puck?"
Anders could only smile and shrug.
"Wow!" Sid said, resuming wiping the counter. "And they said I was out of touch. You've got to meet him. You really never have? About your height, blond curly hair in a ponytail, green eyes? Always at a computer?"
"Wait. You don't mean that hacker guy, do you?"
"Of course I mean that hacker guy! So you have met him?"
"I've only heard of him. But I thought his name was Matthew."
"Well, that's his real name. And nobody can help but to hear about him." She swished the cloth across the counter. Anders quickly lifted his bottle and she wiped under it and he set it back down with a clink. "You have to meet him. Nobody can go around on this campus without meeting Puck Benteen. I'll tell him you want to meet him. He's not a very social guy but I'm sure he will. When are you free?"
"Well, I don't really care--"
"I know! Tomorrow afternoon would be a good time, out near the Hub. That's where he lives, under the Hub. Did you know they have a fully-equipped room down there? I've seen it once. He's got a computer and a modem and everything. He'll have to show it to you."
"But, you see, I--"
"It's settled then. Tomorrow around four. I'll tell him. Oh, and enjoy your tea." She swept on to the other end of the counter, already on her way to serving another customer. Anders simply sat where he was, feeling as if his voicebox had been shut off. And Sidras was holding the switch.
The only reason Anders showed up was because he didn't believe in being rude unless it was warranted. He approached the low, round-roofed building, but no one was in sight; annoyed, he turned slowly in circles, pivoting on his heel, but saw nobody approaching. He snorted and pushed open the Hub door and stepped inside, then gasped at what he was seeing.
He'd never been in the Hub before, and so hadn't known what to expect. But he most certainly hadn't expected this. The whole building was round, with a padded bench around the wall; above him was a domed skylight, and just below it, upon a giant metal ring, where [sic] all the planets of the solar system. Not only the planets, but their moons, and the sun, and comets and meteors. They appeared to be made of colored glass and metal. It all reminded him of something he'd seen in an old movie, The Dark Crystal. As he watched, the planets suddenly all lit up and started revolving, and from somewhere there came radio music. [Note--recall as I mentioned before that Puck's "Hub" is based on the Hub, AKA the Zodiac Room, at the UAW Family Education Center where my dad works. The real Hub is a room situated between two hallways, but it seems almost like a building in and of itself; it's almost exactly as described, except that the planets seem to be just random planets, and there are maybe a few meteors/comets or some such, and the zodiac signs--such as the spade-tipped M for Scorpio, for example. The planets are made of blown glass whereas the rest appears to be metal and it's all attached to a big metal ring set up near the skylight ceiling; the planets light up, and radio music plays, but they do not move. The metal ring seems to be dangling from cables or something. There are padded benches around the walls but they're interrupted by the doorways leading in and out of the room. I believe the floor and walls are stone. Puck's Hub is a building in and of itself, and has a basement. The Dark Crystal rocks, BTW.]
"Pretty cool, huh?"
Anders turned his head. At the other side of the room stood a man about his age, his finger above what appeared to be a light switch. He pulled it away and leaned against the door casing, smiling and crossing his arms.
Anders turned around fully now, and walked over to join him. "So you're the Puck Benteen I've heard so much about," he said.
Puck continued smiling. "All good, I hope."
Anders instantly decided he didn't like him, and smiled back. "That depends on whose side you're taking."
Still grinning, Puck pushed himself away from the door casing and flicked one of the switches. The planets creaked and groaned, and his smile grew broader as Anders turned abruptly with a gasp of surprise as Saturn swept over his head. "And have you ever heard the music of the spheres, Sweden?"
"I have a name. It's Anders Carlsson." Anders ducked slightly as Neptune swished by, though there was no real need, and looked Puck straight in the eye. "Though I suppose you can call me Mr. Carlsson, U. S. A.."
Puck snorted lightly, still grinning. "All right then, Mr. Carlsson. You can call me Puck."
Anders stepped down a little bit, feeling a little mad at himself for acting so immaturely. "Anders. Just Anders."
"Okay then, Anders. And what brings you here?"
"An obligation to show up. Though I'm sure you have no such experience."
Puck plopped down on the bench lining the wall. "You really have an attitude, don't you, Anders? Somehow I get the feeling you don't like me. Now why could that be?"
"Maybe because you're what's called an anarchist," Anders said hotly, pacing towards him. "A lying, conniving anarchist. Has that ever crossed your mind?" [Note--Anders's reaction here is WAY out of character. He may be hotheaded, but he's hardly THAT bigoted. I have no clue what he would have against "anarchists," nor how he would know that Puck is one (they just met, remember?), nor why he would make such assumptions about Puck's character so quickly. I would understand if his reaction was based entirely on Puck's reputation as a hacker--but it isn't--so it makes no sense as it's currently written. I guess I just needed an excuse for the two to get off on the wrong foot.]
"Hm, I suppose I've been called that before."
"I suppose," Anders mocked him. "I've heard about you and your kind. 'Hackers.' I believe they should gather you all and lock you all up and throw away the key." [Note--again, Anders is not like this. Cripes, I think I would hate him myself.]
Puck just grinned lazily. "And what makes you say that?"
"Because you're all a bunch of anarchists," Anders spat, pacing the room like an angry leopard. "Breaking into other people's files, finding out everybody's secrets, even stealing other people's fortunes. Though I suppose the 'even' doesn't belong. To you that's just routine."
"You obviously don't read up much, do you, Anders Carlsson? I admit, hackers do that, and I've done a couple of those things, but I believe what you're saying here is--what's the word? Could it be biased?" He lay on his back, looking up at the spheres twisting and turning above him, talking more to them than to Anders, who stood nearby, fuming. "Now suppose, just suppose, that Sweden wasn't a neutral country--yes, I do have an education, thank you very much--during World War II; say you decided to side with the Nazis." [Note--and THIS bit of conversation isn't like PUCK at all. Knowing him, he would just start slinging mud right back--in a courteously bitchy way, of course.]
Anders bristled. "And what makes you say we would?"
"Now just suppose, Anders, suppose. That's the main word here. Suppose the Axis Powers lost, like they did, and all that other stuff. Now suppose you came here, and I started calling you Nazi scum, and telling you how I hate your race because the Swedish are nothing but a bunch of crazed, maniacal, homicidal anarchists?" He looked up at Anders, a faint smile still on his lips.
"I'd say it takes one to know one," Anders replied icily.
Another smile. Puck sat up. "No, you wouldn't; you'd be enraged, and righteously so, because what I'm using here is a generalization; I can't see the forest for the trees, right? ALL SWEDES ARE BAD. Period. But in your heart you know that's not true, don't you, Anders Carlsson?" [Note--Puck is such a person that I really don't think he would care that Anders called him a name. Knowing him, he would probably just say, "Thanks!"]
Anders was beginning to wonder if it was some kind of American custom to call everybody by their first and last name; first Gavin had done it, and now Puck. Whatever it was, it was certainly starting to aggravate him. [Note--probably every time I use the word "aggravate" or any variation in my early writing, it's misused. So I'll cease letting you know.] Not to say that Puck wasn't. [Note--what I meant by that was, "Not to say that Puck wasn't starting to aggravate him, too."] "I know in my heart you'll end up with one less nose if you keep this up."
"You really are a hard one to get along with, aren't you? I wonder how Dino does it. Well, in my heart, I know that's not true; I hope that someday you'll find out the same thing goes for my 'race'." [Note--misplaced period or single quote there but I didn't make note of it in my first run-through of this story. Hm. Negligent of me.]
Aha, Anders thought, I've got him now. "So say that is true. Then what about government? I suppose your nice little world view doesn't include them, too?"
Puck smiled once more at Anders's observation. "It does," he said, "but I've had much more experience with them than you have. Let's just say that the government knows too much for their own good, and the reason they hide all this stuff is so people will eventually find it out. People like me."
"Of course."
Puck nodded. "Why else would they store it in files if they didn't want it known? Couldn't they just hire some genius to keep it all in his head?"
"You mean someone like you?"
The smile this time was more of a warning, and Anders knew he was starting to push it. "No, not me. Somebody like me, perhaps, but not me. After all, why would I be working with the government? Like you said, I'm just an anarchist." He got up and stretched, heading for the basement door. "Have a nice day, Mr. Anders Carlsson from Sweden," he said, and flicked off the lights and shut the door behind him. The planets slowed gradually and finally stopped moving altogether, their lights out, the music silenced. Anders was left in the middle of the big room, only the overcast glow from the skylight falling upon him, and it was only then that he realized he'd forgotten to ask Puck about his dream. But, somehow, he had the feeling he didn't really need to ask after all.
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