Blueprints of the Afterlife

by Ryan Boudinot

Abby’d been born into this era yet to be named, in the years that followed that dark period known as the Age of Fucked Up Shit.

Near the pier a couple bike cops knelt on the sidewalk getting a Bionet reading from a passed-out homeless guy. He’d soon find himself in a detox center downtown where he would get wrung out like a dishcloth, be given a vitamin-rich meal, and suffer through some boilerplate therapyish remonstrations delivered by a bored staffer. The next day he’d get dumped back onto the concrete grid where he’d hit up a dealer for a decryption code to illegally download painkillers.

“Of course, when you’re in those years you don’t expect the world to take a turn for the worse, do you? You expect the world to ride along on your own happiness, as if you had any control. But the Age of Fucked Up Shit reminded us that we’re just parasites on this planet and, like parasites, we can be easily exterminated.

Pretty sure we’re near at this “age” now.

There followed an industrial-metal number in which the ghost of Isaac Pope, joined by the ghosts of other dot-com CEOs, sang about rounds of financing, server farms, and the importance of accepting cookies and clearing one’s cache when encountering a technical problem.

“Do we have everything?” Skinner said as his wife’s shape passed before him in the living room. How many times in the history of elderly-person road trips has that question been asked?

Skinner opened the glove compartment and located the Coca-Cola 9mm beneath a stack of expired insurance cards. It was an old firearm, an early model from when Coke, Nike, Sony, Verizon, and every other major conglomerate seemed to be rushing into the business of arming America. Coke eventually stopped manufacturing this model, returning somewhat sheepishly, post-FUS, to its core business of delicious sugared beverages. Skinner rubbed the faded red-and-white grip with the dynamic-ribbon logo.

“I’m considering it by way of a neurological metaphor,” Hiroko said. “I stumbled on some research from the 1950s, two scientists named Olds and Milner who first identified the pleasure centers of the brain. I guess their most famous experiment was when they stimulated the pleasure centers of rats whenever the rats pressed a particular bar in their cage. It didn’t take long for the rats to stimulate their pleasure centers to the point of exhaustion, to the point of not eating or taking care of their other physiological needs. My argument is that in the age of Fucked Up Shit, human beings became like those rats, whacking the bars that stimulated our pleasure centers even as those very bars were what triggered our doom. In the last few decades of the twentieth century, we started to understand the terms of our self-destruction. Our rational minds argued against using fossil fuels, against overeating and too much television, against accumulating too much wealth among too few, but a more powerful part of our brains kept pushing those bars. Push, push, push. The solutions, the ways we might avoid the FUS, were staring us right in the face. It was obvious and apparent: stop using oil, stop making plastic, control the growth of the population to a logical level so we could exist within the parameters of our ecology. If we didn’t do these things, most of us would die. But we were willing to die because a more powerful part of our minds, the old mammalian limbic system, was busy pus...

Good description of where we are today, particularly in the U.S.

There’s a whole underground economy driven by embodiments. People just set up to work at mindless jobs, to consume the same shit every day, punch in and punch out, keep products in production, services rendered, walking around numb and dumb and compliant, without an original thought in their damn heads.”

I don’t doubt corporations would jump on this if it became available tomorrow. Is there a law against it?

“By now, sympathy for the plight of the polar bears had largely disappeared from public discourse. Instead of beautiful mammals deserving of our preservation efforts, they came to be known as a marauding horde of beasts surfing a climatic anomaly that was laying waste to Canada.

I was trying to be polite but I was visibly frustrated. He had no reason to be helpful to me. I was just some dirty freak who looked like he’d stumbled out of an R. Crumb comic.

Leaning against the granite counter, Abby called her apartment, Rocco’s cell, the phone numbers of her friends in Vancouver, Rocco’s work, and her apartment manager but nobody answered and no voice mail picked up. It occurred to her that she expected the world to operate a certain way, expected phone calls to be answered and some semblance of causality to provide lines between dots. She expected her intentions to find outlet in actions, consequences, reasons, purposes. But she was being thwarted, teased it seemed, prevented from making decisions that would lead her back to a system of gratification and contentment. There were other forces working, pushing her into an abstract version of the world she assumed she belonged to. She could fight it, jabbing digits into a telephone hoping one of them would pull up a recognizable voice while this weird blinky guy rooted through the fridge—which, by the looks of it, contained some pretty delicious food—or she could take her sense of rationality, stretch its figurative chicken neck across a cutting board, and lop off its head.

Sometimes you have to give up on finding familiar landmarks.

Abby couldn’t connect this new experience to the experience of snooping through Kylee Asparagus’s mansion or watching the Federicos cavort in a grand ballroom. She couldn’t connect it to what increasingly appeared to be an illusory domestic life with her Bionet engineer boyfriend. She couldn’t connect it to eating a sandwich in a house dominated by glowing spherical life forms. She yearned for plot but instead absurdity after absurdity had been thrown before her, absurdities that alluded to obscured purposes.

First, as far as my job goes, you can think of me as a curator. Typically a curator is someone in a museum who arranges the art or exhibits, right? In my case, I curate this world. I initiate contacts between people, ensure that certain parties speak to other parties, put people (aka the content) in new contexts. Second, I work for Mr. Kirkpatrick. You can think of Mr. Kirkpatrick as being the head of the museum. The man with the money to acquire new—I don’t want to call them realities but that’s essentially what they are. See how it works? He finds and categorizes and purchases them, and I move them around into the most pleasing arrangements. We needed you at the Seaside Love Palace because we needed a consciousness to move through the world of Kylee Asparagus and the Federicos. We needed someone to discern and imprint their reality, that’s all. Okay, your last question, about Rocco. It’s true you can’t get in touch with him. This will last a couple more weeks. I’m going to be completely honest with you, Abby, because you’ve been so great. He’s going to suffer a little, but ultimately he’ll be okay.”

Usually there’s some sort of explanation for how two people get from one place to another but in this case there really isn’t. One moment Woo-jin and Abby were standing in the morgue with Dr. Farmer, talking to Dirk Bickle on a mobile phone fished from the mouth of one of the dead Abbys. Next they were under a new city’s rain, Woo-jin shivering beneath a plastic tarp in an alley off Robson Street, Abby back at her apartment watching a show.

He suspected he was an insect in the scheme of things, something to be scraped off the sole of a shoe. But the course of action his meaninglessness implied, to do absolutely nothing, would have caused great offense to the dude at the end of the world and his mystical refrigerator. The dude needed reading material. So Woo-jin wrote.

Good question. I still couldn’t tell you. Really it all boiled down to making Web pages and developing the back-end systems to support them. That’s what everyone was actually doing. But everything was pitched as “internetworking solutions for revolutionary crossfunctional database management” blah blah blah.

Having been in that early 2000s dot com world, I’d say this is right-on.

The thing about Web companies is there’s always something severely fucked-up. There is always an outage, always lost data, always compromised customer information, always a server going off-line. You work with these clugey internal tools and patch together work-arounds to compensate for the half-assed, rushed development, and after a while the fucked-upness of the whole enterprise becomes the status quo. VPs insecure that they’re not as in touch as they need to be with conditions on the ground insert themselves into projects midstream and you get serious scope creep. You present to the world this image that you’re a buttoned-down tech company with everything in its right place but once you’re on the other side of the firewall it looks like triage time in an emergency room, 24/7. Systems break down, laptops go into the blue screen of death, developers miskey a line of code, error messages appear that mean absolutely nothing. The instantaneousness with which you can fix stuff creates a culture that works by the seat of its pants. I swear the whole Web was built by virtue of developers fixing one mistake after another, constantly forced to compensate for the bugginess of their code. Then, on top of the technical fucked-upness, you add the human emotions of an office environment. People feel undervalued, hold grudges, get snagged into little vendettas, fantasize about shoving their bosses off the roof. At Skinwiggle, where I was making $250 grand, there were constant turf wars...

People who’ve been in the industry any length of time will recognize the truth here.

Well, first, we were high on marijuana. Second, we’d just watched 2001. So you could have read us a receipt from the grocery store and our minds would have been blown.

She said she’d felt like a human fax machine.

We ended up concocting a science fiction explanation. This was a lot of fun, actually. Wyatt brought his knowledge of various medical modalities, I supplied the tech knowledge. We decided the Bionet would be a biological version of the Internet, a monitoring system in which individual bodies would transmit information to other bodies or groups of bodies. The initial stages of the Bionet would involve already existing technology, like pacemakers. When a pacemaker detected a cardiac event, it could transmit a distress signal with GPS coordinates to 911, triggering a response from paramedics. Then we thought, what if the Bionet could also accept signals from a remote source, and say, dispense certain things into the bloodstream? For instance, what if instead of swallowing a pill, there was a nanotechnology pharmaceutical factory installed under your skin? What if the Bionet was an extension of the immune system? And what if it could respond to a pandemic by releasing the proper cocktail of antigens into an entire populace, effectively putting up a wall against a particular outbreak? Then we started thinking about the neural ramifications of such a technology. Remember all those movies in the early nineties where people had bulky cable jacks in the backs of their necks? What if you could accomplish the same sorts of virtual immersions without the wires? What if your thoughts could transmit data about your body to an external server? Or what if you just got over a cold, and you...

The paper in those awful days had printed photos of mass graves and decapitated corpses, images set amid ads for boat repair and chiropractors. And to think Bramble Falls was a small town. Just imagine what the Fucked Up Shit must have looked like in a major metropolis. You could pretty much plug any imagined scenario into the discourse on the FUS and come up with a delusion that somebody would believe. At times it seemed the only way to describe what had actually happened was to reach into the depths of myth. Folks screaming, running with eyes bleeding through canyons of concrete and steel as the sky rained asteroids that uncannily targeted famous landmarks. Shaky, hand-held cameras tracking radioactive Godzillas. Robot militias pillaging retirement communities. Automobiles bursting out of the twentieth stories of office towers. Vampires battling werewolves for supremacy of the night. And so on.

I turned to Wyatt and said we really needed to chill out with the pot smoking.

The trip began with a vortex opening in the sky, like a tornado but made of shadows. This swirling portal summoned her and she let herself rocket up through the atmosphere into space. She traveled at an unfathomable speed through the sponge-like structure of the universe, a structure she sensed to be omniscient and acutely aware of her past, present, and future. She felt she was being watched with curiosity or amusement, like a human watches an ant bumbling along its path. The universe revealed itself to be unbearably and painfully gorgeous, to the point that she feared its beauty might kill her. Gradually she decelerated and the foam-like structure of the universe reconstituted itself into stars and galaxies. Floating in front of her was a cylindrical object, a craft of some sort, as long as the earth is wide but about the same proportions as a soda can. As she approached she observed its worn exterior, scuffed and pocked by asteroids. She came to a metallic orifice, an anus-like portal into the vessel, passed through it with little difficulty, and found herself floating through a long tunnel toward a pinprick of light. As she told the story to us back here on earth she said it reminded her of a drawing of Persephone emerging from Hades that she’d seen in a children’s book on Greek mythology. When she emerged she was sort of coughed up onto a field covered in the most spectacular wildflowers. Looking at each petal, each bud was like falling madly in love. Above her stretc...

She wanted to know if she had really been visited by extraterrestrials as a child. Michael said yes, this was so, and there had been contact between these visitors and earth for tens of thousands of years. For many centuries these extraterrestrials had been working to reprogram the human subconscious, preparing it for eventual inter–life form communion. The science fiction genre, Michael explained, was a means by which humans were coming to internalize, through myth, knowledge of the existence of other sentient life forms. By the time this communion occurred, humans would be psychologically prepared to embark on an interplanetary collaboration to spread life through the universe.

It’s a foundation, an incubator designed to cultivate inventors. Those who have the potential to bring about paradigmatic change. It seeks to direct the course of history by coordinating the efforts of individuals who fit certain profiles. It brings these individuals together in the hopes that when they work collaboratively, the magnitude of the historical shifts they bring about will be greater than if these individuals had been working alone.”

I think Swan could tell I was bullshitting her but she continued. “Have you ever met a slave, Luke?” she asked. The question took me aback, coming from a black person. I stammered out a no. She said, “Really? You’ve never been to a mall? You’ve never watched shoppers with their carts piled with soda and microwavable food? You’ve never stayed in a hotel where a fifty-year-old Mexican mother of six scrubs your shit stains off the toilet bowl? You’ve never watched TV for five hours straight?” She went on to explain their theory, sort of a pseudo-Marxist vision of the gemeinschaft and the gessellschaft, the ruling class and the underclass, the proletariat and the elite, the haves and have-nots, the first world and the third. According to Swan, Mr. Kirkpatrick, whose name she refused to utter, had founded the academy as a method to ensure that those in power stayed in power, that those enslaved remained enslaved. The dropouts were the students who refused to go along with this philosophy and had instead allied themselves with the underclass, struggling for equality. Or maybe it was the other way around. It was all a little fuzzy. I asked her about Dirk Bickle. She said Bickle was one of Kirkpatrick’s agents, traveling the world in search of candidates to ensnare in the program.

You have to remember that this was a day in which I’d met Chewbacca, gotten puked on, run into Nick after years of not knowing his whereabouts, and enjoyed some vegetarian fare with people with animal names in the basement of a painted lady outside Berkeley. I was seriously questioning my sanity.

Pretty representative of the kind of shit that happens in this novel.

“I come as an emissary from a steward race. Now is time for revealing. You have been encoded with the prophecy. This prophecy is not something that was to be revealed to you all at once, but over time. You were born encoded, and through your experiences have come to decode the message. Bloodshed and suffering are coming for all. The time for negotiating with this fate has long passed. Humans have been under observation throughout their rising by other stewards of life. At times we have intervened in your affairs. Your religions, your greatest achievements of art and science, were guided by our hands. Look within yourself. You know this to be true. Your religions have outlived their usefulness. They have become tools of death. A new path is opening to you, one that creates life and populates the universe with seeds. This is the purpose of your love. After the century of bloodshed and suffering will come a new era. Those few who survive will emerge from where they’ve hidden and set in motion new life. Still, pockets of the human animal will seek oppression and slavery. In this final struggle these forces must be overcome for new life to blossom.” I asked, “What is my purpose in this?” “Your purpose is to know these things to be true.”

I was beginning to understand that the end of the world wasn’t something that came about all at once. There was no one climactic event that definitively destroyed life as we knew it. Rather, it happened incrementally, so slowly it was difficult to notice, the frog in the boiling water. A few of us saw it coming but were dismissed as insane, or we blew our cred by drawing lines in the sand and declaring that the world would end on a particular date. You know the cartoons with the sandal-wearing, bearded freak on a street corner holding a sign reading “The end is near.” The end was a slow but accumulating tabulation of lost things. We lost species of animals, polar ice, a building here and there, whole cities. There was a time when we lived on streets where we knew our neighbors’ names but now we were all strangers isolated in our condos late at night, speaking across distances to our lonely, electronic communities. Children used to play in forests. We used to gather around a piano and join our voices together. I tried to determine whether these sad thoughts were just the result of growing old. Probably, but that didn’t make them any less real. Maybe I had lost so much myself—my family, my friends—that I couldn’t help but project my grief onto the world at large. It was no longer enough for me to grieve for a lost mother, father, sister, or friend. Now my grief intended to encompass the planet.

Some tiny percentage see it coming, the rest can’t conceive of it.

Whatever had happened to me after the shooting—first Bickle, then the visitation by the blue woman—had so altered my priorities that I found it impossible to imagine returning to a so-called “normal” life in which I’d have a job, a place to live, friendships. I didn’t have any claim to these things anymore. The whole human enterprise—buildings, roads, laws, media, sports, religion, culture, you name it—struck me as a vast, collective dementia.

What do you think is beyond that door? This isn’t a rhetorical question. What’s beyond that door? I—I don’t know. Well, there’s a hallway, some offices, a break room with vending machines for soft drinks and snacks, a parking garage where I park my Volvo every morning. Beyond that there’s a city, with streets lined with stores like Applebee’s, Whole Foods, and Best Buy. There are dry cleaners and gas stations and churches and schools. There are freeways leading to suburbs where there are homes where people live. And in those homes are kitchens where food is prepared, bedrooms where people sleep and dream, garages where they put their cars. People typically get up and go to work five days a week then spend a couple days doing whatever they want. People take vacations, make money, meet partners, have children, get old, get admitted to hospitals, then die. Every year there are a couple new and exciting electronic gadgets that people get excited about. People pay attention to sports scores and who celebrities are sleeping with. They try to get promotions to get more money to spend on stuff for themselves. Some of them go to community gatherings, some get obese, a very few commit criminal acts and get incarcerated. There are addicts, social workers, software developers, bus drivers, attorneys, and teachers. Everyone getting up in the morning, taking showers, listening to the radio on the way to work, catching a movie on the weekend or doing some gardening. That’s the world out ...

New era? What’s so new about it? When has the world not been fucked-up? Wasn’t it pretty fucked-up for the Jews in Auschwitz? Wasn’t it pretty fucked-up for the Africans on slave ships? You have no— Point to any era and I’ll show you pestilence, war, slavery, genocide. Even the supposed good times were tinged in darkness. There’s no such thing as a new era of fucked-up shit because the shit has always been fucked-up. Fucked-up is the nature of the shit. And yet somehow we endure it. And little by little life improves. Fewer women die in childbirth. Slavery is abolished. Children don’t have to work in factories anymore. Life expectancies increase— Momentary illusions of— Here’s a question for you: Why is it that when things were going relatively well for you, when you were making the big bucks in the dot-com bubble or just sort of retired and hanging out, getting stoned with your friends, that you seemed to lose interest in finding Nick, the academy, and Mr. Kirkpatrick? You only started believing in the Age of Fucked Up Shit after Nick shot you in Arizona—if, in fact, that’s what actually happened. Anytime things were going right for you, the future of the world seemed bright. Anytime they were going wrong, the imminent collapse of civilization was at hand. Can’t you see how thoroughly you projected your own subjective vision of reality on the world?

They half dragged, half lifted Skinner to the cabin. Inside, vaporized marijuana had for all practical purposes replaced oxygen. Tapestries of Jimi Hendrix and Pink Floyd, bicycle parts, gutted computers, cedar burls carved into the faces of characters from The Lord of the Rings. Soda cans, garlic braids, gears and rods, a stack of yellowed Penthouse Forum magazines, a couple screens, old-school video game consoles, a lamp that in a former life had been a chunk of driftwood, a bowling trophy, liquor-bottle candle holders, mouse traps, rag rugs, manuals for extinct machines, rope, frying pans, guitars, hunting rifles, optical devices. Shit hanging from the ceiling: fishing poles, a kayak, a bucket, pulleys, climbing gear, a couple more guitars, a tricycle, snowshoes, snowboards, inner tubes. Was there furniture? Sort of, buried amid the stuff. Perhaps a couple couches, two hammocks hanging Gilligan and Skipper–style on one side of the room. On the coffee table smoldered a Gaudiesque glass bong. There was a loft reachable by ladder and beneath it a cramped, overwhelmed kitchenette.

Epic, zany, bizarre scenes like this endear this book to me.

I started going out, walking at night, along wide sidewalks littered with flyers for escort services. I passed among the drunk, the destitute, the horny, and the wealthy like I was the only one who knew a bomb was about to go off. Like someone out of the Bible in this titty bar wasteland. Inebriated bachelorettes howling through limo sun roofs turned into centaurs farting exhaust. Cigar smoke and sunscreen. A bride in a maternity wedding dress. The carnal desperation of neon. I considered my fellow human beings and thought that it wasn’t that we’d become animals, it’s that we’d always been animals. Watching a gang of fraternity boys muscling through a casino esplanade was like watching ancient tribesmen, all of them bent on mating after the kill. The women appeared to be fixated on two primary consumer goods—shoes and handbags—as if they lived in a long-forgotten civilization now survived only by its baskets and trinkets. I didn’t belong to these people. I didn’t feel better than them, I just felt alien. In fact, I saw how happy they appeared to be and I envied them for it. I imagined the moment it would all stop, the silent pause before the plants withered and the rivers ran with blood. My bones rattled with the coming apocalypse. What could I do but cower in my room, ordering french fries and lobster and surf and turf, sitting naked on the floor watching the obscene glitter persist with its monied seductions on the other side of a bulletproof window?

Then the downtown hub with its great mustached men from Texas and smoke-ravaged faces all around. Most of these eyes had gone out, become black and capable of reading only a deck’s worth of symbols, the spinning signifiers on a slot machine. But if you looked hard enough you could see that they knew what I knew. They knew there was a time limit, even if they hadn’t come to admit it to themselves. They knew all this was about to disappear, so they could be forgiven for believing the most sensible course of action was to order another round. I found a table in a gambling house saloon and ordered myself a whiskey. What a cowboy, right? I hadn’t been drinking since I got here but this seemed a good place to start.

As I listened to Tex’s story I wondered if he was the one who’d gone crazy. But I’d seen some wild shit in the last year or so. Talking to a guy dressed as a root vegetable knocking back Jim Beam was sort of the least of it.

The wry tone Luke takes is the BEST.

The apartment was nothing special but it suited Abby fine. Everything in the place appeared as it had the morning before the city vanished from the face of the earth, the morning of Manhattan’s last scan and backup, from the stone and steel composing the building to the six inches of dental floss curled in the bathroom sink. The scan—involving some really far-out software and a butt-load of satellites—had been performed under quasilegal circumstances by a company called Argus Industries, who’d intended to replicate New York City for a full-immersion gaming environment. The transformation of Bainbridge Island into Manhattan wasn’t so much a matter of building a to-scale model as downloading the backed-up version of the city in which every molecule was accounted for. There’d been some glitches. Abby spotted a few in Sylvie’s apartment right away. A cross section of an incompletely rendered coffee cup sat on the kitchen counter, and the aquarium had been filled with concrete instead of water. A few of the books on the shelves were missing actual words. Everything down to the graffiti and faded posters on the walls was being resurrected by insanely efficient and tireless newman labor, but there were still spots here and there that needed work.

Wasn’t it interesting, he said, that humans had imperiled the planet at precisely the moment when we’d become capable of developing a technological solution to undo the damage? What held us back, he said, was our orientation to nature. We’d thoroughly externalized it instead of coming to terms with ourselves as its greatest force. We speak of “the environment” as if it’s something apart from us. We speak of protecting the environment and being environmentally friendly as if the environment exists outside our homes. Worse were those who wished to restore nature to some prehuman state, failing to recognize that nature is constantly changing. The only rational choice, Bickle said, was to adopt an inventionist philosophy of environmental stewardship and engage in full-scale planetary reengineering, and to embrace the spirit of this project as a natural phenomenon rather than an artificial, human enterprise. The concept of artificiality was itself artificial. Mr. Kirkpatrick saw through the cultural construct that would segregate nature, humanity, and technology. His was an effort to redeem the human race through understanding that we were meant to control the course of nature and engineer it for the purposes of beauty.

Yes, isn’t it interesting?

Keep in mind I was surrounded by a society in which people didn’t appear to believe in anything deeper than their product wish lists. Think about it. Utah is populated largely by people who believe their prophet discovered a pair of gold plates and spoke to an angel named Moroni. Hollywood is run by people who surgically alter their appearances and think they’re descended from an alien named Xenu. People believe in ghosts, UFOs, a Heaven in which they’ll reunite with all their dead relatives. Let’s not even get into Christianity with its flaming sword guarding the tree of knowledge. Human beings just fundamentally believe crazy fucking shit, the crazier the better. What Bickle was hinting at seemed a lot less crazy than praying to Jesus to make you rich. Is believing that human beings are meant to be stewards of life in the universe really crazier than believing a certain brand of car makes you sexy or that God is keeping track of how many times you masturbate?

You remember how he created that machine when we were in high school, the one that took itself apart? The science fair. Right. Well imagine such a machine operating on a global scale. Actually, you can’t call it a machine, per se. Consider it a program, a system, a Rube Goldberg series of actions and reactions spreading outward from a central node. To call it a weapon would be too reductive. It was a device that set certain events in motion. The finger that topples the first in a row of dominos. Bickle called it the Rebooting Device, a technology designed to reconfigure the planet and bring about a new era.

Inside I found a smaller cardboard box, and inside that box the device. It was a cheap video-game controller from the 1970s, a scuffed black plastic case with a big red button on it. It looked like a joke. I wondered if Bickle hadn’t sent me across the country so I’d leave the academy unattended. Maybe I was being fucked with. I took the device back to the hotel and sat on the bed looking at it. If I believed it was bogus, some sort of prop, then it didn’t matter if I pushed the button or not. But if it really did set in motion the end of our times, then it mattered very much whether I pushed it. If I pushed the button, it meant I wasn’t sure whether it was real and I was only pushing it to find out. Pushing it was an admission of skepticism. If I didn’t push it, on the other hand, then part of me really did believe that it brought about the Fucked Up Shit. Did it matter whether or not I pushed it? I thought of my dead parents, my sister. My childhood home swept into the sound on a tidal wave of mud. I paced the room. I was in a rock/paper/scissors stalemate. Belief versus disbelief versus curiosity. Had Nick really invented a remote control to end the world? Ridiculous, right?

“This is the afterlife, Al. Except this afterlife is real and it’s on earth. It’s beautiful. It’s our redemption. It’s the time when we fulfill the task we were put here to do from when we crawled up out of the slime. Mr. Kirkpatrick teaches us that long ago we fearfully opened our eyes and searched for God. Now we open our eyes with love and create new life that will behold our fading shadow in awe. This is how it has been for all time. Intelligence moves relentlessly toward the creation of new varieties of intelligence and the greatest achievement of intelligence is the dissemination of new life forms. This clone of your son is the one we’ve been waiting for.”

Nick said, “I’m not asking you to believe me right now. I’m asking you to come with me and discover what it is you truly believe.” I must have laughed at him. He said, “Think about how long you’ve wanted to be a part of this. Think about how you’ve been shut out of the conversation. We’re offering you a way in. We’re offering to show you all the cards. Now you can be part of the small group of people leading humanity to redemption.” I asked him how. He said, “Say we figure out how to lower the global temperature and find a way to safely break down all the plastic we’ve dumped, all the toxins we’ve unleashed. Maybe we find a way to bring population growth down to a sustainable level and resurrect species we’ve killed off. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Wouldn’t that be just peachy? And if that’s the case, our little group, we become nothing but happy fools. That’s Plan A for humanity. We’re launching Plan B. We’re the ones who love life so much that we have to pass it on. What is to come is a beautiful age, a heroic age.” But I couldn’t go. “My family died here,” I said. “They didn’t know they were about to die. I don’t have that luxury. I need to be here to take care of the people who don’t live on that island with the scientists and artists. The impending dystopia you talk about only looks like dystopia to those of us who’ve lived surrounded by privilege. To everybody else it’s called history. I need to be here for those people. They’re my people. I belong to them.”