Atoms
Atoms
by Chris Morton
On the heavy door was a computerized pad and the man wiped at the surface, smoothing away the snow. He scratched at the newly formed layer of thin ice.
“Heat!” he said over the high-pitched sound of wind. “Heat, goddammit.” He breathed at the pad, condensing the ice. The man hit at the contraption and finally it lit up. “Heat,” he said, and the pad flickered and buzzed in response.
The man stood back, waiting, clapping his hands together. Shuffling from one foot to the other, his boots crunching in the snow, he seemed unimpressed by the beauty of the landscape surrounding him. In the background the snowy mountains glared down at this patch of whiteness: at the square, shallow cabin and the tiny figure beside it, alone and cursing.
The man was wearing fingerless gloves, an anorak, thick trousers and snow boots. Over his shoulder was a satchel.
He tried the door again and this time was successful – the wheel to the right of the pad was a locking mechanism that required three turns to the right and one to the left. Whereas before it had been completely frozen up, the wheel now moved easily with a series of satisfying clicks.
The door sprang open.
“Lights!” the man said. The inside of the cabin was large and spacious. There were no divisions, it was one long room. The left of the cabin included a bed and comfortable armchair, there was a workout area with mat and bicycle, a kitchen area, an open toilet and bathroom. To the right was a workstation: a large flashing monitor sat on a desk, a 3D printer beside it, and beside that was a flat console with a number of cartridges inserted. The desk was littered with empty food packs and in the far corner of the room was an area under UV light where from a table of soil a dozen seedlings were sprouting.
The man slipped off his jacket and snow boots. He went over to the desk and from the drawer took out a packet of cigarettes.
“Yeah, well, if anyone’s watching, there’s a blizzard outside,” said the man, shaking a cigarette out the pack and lighting up. He breathed in the smoke, which hovered around his rather tired looking face. He was young but seemed to bear the stress of many days without sleep. It was one of those youthfully rugged sort of faces; stubble, unkempt hair and a blemish of red spots which ran in a line along his right cheek. The man’s lips were bright red from the sudden change in temperature, his eyes were bloodshot.
Bending over at the monitor, the man swiped the flashing screen. A series of messages came up, each in blocks that would come to the foreground, then drop back, allowing another to take its place. One of these messages the man clicked on and it paused. The message was from a Doctor Chang and read I can reschedule our appointment. Let me know when you get back.
The man clicked on the box and it flashed green.
“Okay, then, Doc. Let’s see what bright ideas you have for me this time.”
The man rose from his position in front of the monitor and walked over to the toilet area, smoking and cursing. From behind him the monitor’s messages continued to circulate.
The man took a shower and changed into a t-shirt and shorts. He went over to his satchel which had been resting on the desk and took out a large silver camera. Opening the back, he ejected a heavy cartridge which he took over to the flat console, plugging it into one of the sockets. He then went back to the computer monitor and brought up another of the messages.
“Here you go, then,” the man said. He went back to the console and swiped in a set of commands. He punched in a code, then went back to the monitor again.
A series of images were now brought up in quick succession. They were the photographs the man had taken, close-ups of snow, rocks and ice mostly; it was hard in fact to distinguish one from another, although a few of the pictures were of a dull green moss growing on a rocky surface, and at the beginning of the feed had been images of the sprouting seedlings from the corner of the cabin’s interior.
When all of the photographs had flashed through, a message came up saying: Samples accepted.
“Another day, then,” huffed the man. He walked over to the kitchen area and from a cupboard produced a pint-sized bottle of whiskey. “Another day,” the man repeated, unscrewing the top.
From the monitor came the sound of a ring-tone – a happy jingle that danced around the room, almost laughing, almost poking fun at the man. Bottle still in hand, he went over to the computer. “Crap,” he said, but then: “Okay, Doc, let’s give it another try.”
The man accepted the incoming call and a face appeared on the monitor’s screen – an Asian man who by all appearances was in his mid-fifties.
“Doctor Chang.” The young man coughed, stubbing out his cigarette. “To what do I have the pleasure?”
The doctor smiled. “Always a pleasure to see you, Stephenson.” He had a loud, jolly voice that bore confidence and a commanding nature.
“Sure it is, sure it is. You say that to all your patients?”
“Just the ones I like.”
“Sure, sure.”
“You’re drinking again, I see.”
The man looked down at his bottle of whiskey. “Not much else to do out here.”
“And how’s the cat?”
“It died,” replied the man. “But that was a few months ago. Seems you forgot about me, Doc.”
From inside the viewscreen, the doctor was swiping at his own monitor, thick fingers brushing against the surface. “Yes, yes, of course,” he boomed. “Apologies, apologies. Hypothermia. Your systems were down.”
“Either that or I killed it, Doc.” The man took another swig from the bottle.
“Shall we get you another one? How about a dog? Although I see here you requested –”
“Forget it, Doc. Quite happy out here all alone.”
“Yes, yes, I see.” The doctor was still reading from his side of the screen, frowning, his eyes flicking to and fro. “A priority eight I’ve got you as.”
“And what’s priority one? Insanity?”
“Now, now, Stephenson, no need for that. As it happens,” said the doctor, suddenly looking straight and smiling, “we have a new device. And I see from your file that you’re a perfect match.” He smiled again.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes, yes,” replied the doctor. His eyes moved slightly away once more. “Says here you’re in complete fitness. No family records of mental health problems. No tragedies. You’ve been stationed there for eight months as I remember?”
“And you’re giving me a ticket home?”
The doctor laughed loudly. “According to my records you’re doing just fine,” he said. “They’re happy with your work.”
The man tapped at the desk, fingers dancing around the base of the whiskey bottle. “Sure, I get it, Doc. I’m indispensable.”
The doctor gave a broad smile. “Some questions, though, first. Just a formality, you understand? You know the routine.”
The man leaned back in his chair.
“Right, then, so … How about we begin with your name?”
“Stephenson,” the man coughed. “Hal Stephenson.”
“Age?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“And your occupation?”
“You mean out here?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, Doc. What can I say? I’m a smut. A pleb. I take photographs and send ’em back to the labs. Anyone could do it.”
“Qualifications?”
The man raised his fingers, folding each one down in turn.
“Pilot’s license, survival training, crash course in botany, another crash course in using the 6D camera …”
“And you studied photography, I see. At NCU.”
“Not much in the way of photography out here. Seen one rock formation, seen ’em all. Bleak,” the man murmured. “Snow, white, nothing.” Clearing his throat, he glanced down at the whiskey bottle. “Exploration, they told me. Adventure. And there was I, thinking what a bang-up time of it I’d have.”
“I see, I see.” The doctor clicked at the screen. “And family? You have a sister, she’s a teacher in the Vancouver school of art. And your parents –”
“What is this, Doc? You gonna read me my biography?”
“Not at all, not at all. Just assessing your awareness.” The doctor looked forward, eyes so close to the man. “And what is the purpose of your posting may I ask?”
“Purpose?”
“Yes, purpose. Your function?”
“Make me sound like a robot.”
“Come now, Stephenson. You know you’re depended upon.”
Leaning forward, the man spoke slowly, enunciating his words. His eyes were still bloodshot, but the whiskey had brought more color to his face. His cheeks had flushed and the line of spots bore more distinction. The redness of his lips though had dulled somewhat. “I take the pictures,” he said. “And I send ’em to the labs. No need for a scientist. The 6D camera records all that they want. Visual, atomic makeup, even the smell, so I’m told.”
“And it’s your job to pass that information along?”
“It’s why they sent me. Give it to Stephenson, it’s all he’s good for.”
The doctor smiled reassuringly. “Perfectly normal for you to feel the way you do.”
“And how’s that, Doc? Either fly over a box of pills or get me the hell out of here.”
“No, no, not pills,” the doctor answered. Confidently he picked something up from his side of the screen. It looked like a simple headset – along the headband were was a line of small blue lights, pulsing away, and the earpieces were made of some kind of crystal. “This,” he smiled, “is a zero energy neurostimulater. And quite safe, I assure you. This is no electroshock gadget.” He blinked. “The latest technology. Quite safe …”
The man furrowed his brow.
“What’s it do, play music?”
“No, no. It’s a simple neurostimulator. But not a drug. It’s all quite natural.”
The man leaned forward, gazing at the device. “Zero energy neurostimulator …” He laughed dryly. “Z-E-N,” he spoke, and laughed again. “So what, Doc? This thing gonna turn me into a Taoist?”
Ignoring the man’s comment, the doctor continued: “The device works by stimulating within you a positive, mindful awareness; brings you to the here and now by focusing on a specific area around the frontal cortex using a magnetic field …” Taking in the man’s expression, the doctor changed tact. “Okay,” he said, “Let me put it this way. It works the same as a drug, but it’s a hundred percent safe. No side effects …”
“And it’s been tested?”
“Stephenson, you’re a very lucky individual. This is up to the minute design. The very latest.” The doctor turned over the device in his hand. “And the beauty of it is that it won’t have to be flown over at all. Totally synthetic. Your 3D printer –”
“New technology, you say?”
“Quite. Absolutely. Of course I’ll need your official consent …”
The man shifted in his chair. Huffing and hesitant, he appeared torn.
“Okay, you got me, Doc.”
Leaning forward, the man pressed a forefinger to the monitor. As his fingerprint was scanned, he took in the doctor’s appreciation.
“You won’t regret this.”
“Sure, sure. Here I am, the guinea pig.” The man huffed again. “Zen,” he sighed. “Give it some time and I’ll be painting this cabin floral.”
/
In the kitchen area the man was sat on the floor eating processed meat from a vacuum pack. The whiskey bottle was beside him, almost empty, and he was mumbling to himself, intoxicated.
“The here and now …” Eyes unfocused, the man shoved more of the meat into his mouth. “What the hell around here is there to appreciate?”
Rising unsteadily the man walked over to the 3D printer and picking up the new device, he looked at it briefly before carrying it over to his satchel and shoving it into the inside pocket.
“Maybe tomorrow,” he slurred as he went back into the kitchen area. Retrieving the whiskey bottle from the floor, he drained the remaining contents before throwing that and the empty sachet into a disposer. Opening the cupboard, he took out another bottle and walked over to the monitor. “Goddamn reality, last thing I need.”
The screen flashed to life and there was the collection of pulsing red boxes. Swiping away the first few, the man settle on a box that read GFAPP.
The man looked up at the ceiling.
“A little privacy here?”
He took another swig at the bottle then pressed at the screen.
The face of a woman appeared. She had pure white skin and large purple eyes. Her hair was long and florescent. “Why hello there,” she spoke in a synthetic twang. She was not quite real, almost cartoon-like, though her smile bore warmth and her stare showed understanding. “And how was your day?” she asked.
“The best,” replied the man, his tone of voice thick with cynicism.
The woman pursed her lips and frowned theatrically. Florescent hair danced around pale bare shoulders. “My poor baby. Do you require cheering up?”
The man took another hit from the bottle.
“Obviously.”
The woman clapped her hands in appreciation.
“Okay then, baby. Your wish is my command.”
/
Outside, the man wiped at the camera. He was shaking with cold, the blizzard had gotten worse, but, “Orders are orders,” he was muttering. “More from section twenty-two beta.” He raised the camera and began taking pictures of the rock he was set against, clearing away the snow surrounding the dull green moss.
“Find this interesting?”
The man clicked again at the camera.
“More samples? I’ll give you a bloody thousand.”
Rolling back against the rock, the man gazed up at the distant sun. He pulled back the left sleeve of his jacket and looked at his watch.
“Every twenty minutes for the next eight hours … like anything ever changes round here.”
The man looked back at the moss, then again at his watch. He sniffed heavily, then spat at the snowy ground. Mists of snowflakes blew angrily around him and the wind continued to howl.
Closing his eyes, the man began to hum a tune, a soft melody that juxtaposed with the raging torrent. He seemed to be thinking of another time, another place: thinking of home, of what had come before; anything but this devastating present.
The man looked down at his satchel.
“What the hell. May as well give this thing a try.”
Pulling out the headset-like device, the man mumbled something about Zen, laughing to himself, shivering. He pulled off his snow hat and attached the device firmly, pressing the ear-pieces to his lobes.
/
The man blinked, unable at first to fully accept the sheer whooshof comprehension. The blizzard and snow and he within it, a part of it. The snow – he’d never noticed how beautiful it was. How beautifully formed.Slowly he reached for his camera and began taking photographs.
/
The man had a glass of steaming hot water beside him. Taking a sip, he looked at the doctor, meeting his expression with that of knowing sympathy.
“At first it was simply eye-opening. A total awareness and appreciation.” The man itched at the spots on his face. “But then it became so much more.”
“Go on,” murmured the doctor.
“Yes, yes.” The man leaned forward. “Because right next to me was the camera. The 6D. And I began tounderstand.”
The doctor frowned.
“Understand what exactly?”
“Atoms.” The man itched at his spots again. “The smallest units of ordinary matter, bonded together, associating … you see, Doc, atoms is all we are; all we’ve ever been.”
“Atoms.”
“Yes, atoms!” said the man. He took another sip of water. “The snow, us, the door. My God, the door!” he laughed.
“What door? What are you talking about?”
“The door to this cabin. I tell you, Doc, it always freezes up and I’ve hated that door ever since … but you know what? That door and I, we’re one and the same.”
“Stephenson …”
“Atoms,” continued the man, again with hushed simplicity. His eyes were wide, crinkled and smiling. “One and the same.”
“Yes, yes, atoms! You said that before.” The doctor was looking more and more troubled. “But what does that have to do with –”
“How could I have not …? How can you –”
“Stephenson!” The doctor spoke tensely, lowering his voice. “Stephenson, I want you to listen to me carefully here. Take off the stimulator. You’re having a bad reaction. Something unforeseeable.”
“I realized, you see, that for all these months. Taking those photographs. You know this is one hell of a device, Doc.”
The doctor looked across firmly.
“The neurostimulator?”
“No, not the … not the Zen. The camera! The 6D!” Reaching to his right, the man took up the bulky camera. He held it to the screen. “This, my good doctor –”
“Stephenson, you need to get a hold of yourself!”
“Because on the surface,” the man continued, ignoring the doctor’s protests, “on the surface they’re just pictures. Two dimensional. But the detail can be accessed right down to the atomic level. Atomic level! Records it all!” The man smiled as though remembering an old joke. He held up a hand to his face. “For so long it was right in front of me. All this time …”
“Stephenson! Listen to me!” The doctor was now on the verge of a full blown panic. “Look at me, Stephenson! Look at me and for a goddamn minute try to appreciate what I’m saying! It is vitally important that you remove the ZEN! Take it off right now!”
/
The blizzard had finally stopped and as far as the eye could see there was a calming panorama of white. Wearing only a t-shirt and shorts, the tiny figure of a man was wandering about in the snow.
“It’s all connected!”
Across the man’s scalp, the ZEN continued to pulse steadily.
The man lay down on the ground and began moving his legs and arms apart; together, then apart again. He was making snow angels.
“We’re going to live forever!”
Shouting up at the sky, the man’s voice had become strained. His face was turning blue.
