📖 The Ghost of Emily - Chapter 28

In which all that glitters is anathema.

Marcus waited in the departure lounge coffee shop queue with his usual briefcase, and checked his grandfather’s watch. Someone joined the queue behind him, and Marcus became suddenly self-conscious of the soon-to-be-contraband gold on his wrist. He lowered the watch again and it was obscured by the sleeve of his grey woollen coat. His augmented vision had seen it for just a flash, but he knew that it read 5:18pm.

He had been noticing that his visual sensory processing had consistently improved since his surgery, along with the fidelity of his vision itself. Since having to wait for the plane from New York to LA, the hours of stillness had finally allowed him the time to stop and sit with his new experience as a man with perfect vision, with a great deal of wealth, and with an uncertain but optimistic future as a husband and father in a far flung continent.

Forty-five minutes till boarding, he thought as the elderly man in front of him filed away and his position in the queue progressed to pole.

The pimple-faced brunette behind the counter drawled her endlessly repeated greeting and enquiry. “Welcome to Beans Around the World, what can I get ya?”

Beans Around the World? Marcus chuckled at the absurdity of the business name, but his amusement remained unnoticed as her face never turned away from the display screen in front of her, her hovering acrylic-encased fingernail poised in front of its touch interface, ready to input his order. Her distance reminded him of the furtive down-turned gazes of the people passing him by in the streets of New York this morning.

He looked at her name tag. Her name was Jerney. When she finally looked up at him, he tried to begin the conversation again. “Hi, Jerney. I’m Marcus. How is your evening going?” His attempt at civility failed.

Her shoulders sagged and she immediately turned her face back to the display screen. Her expression suggested that he had assaulted her in some way. “Not bad. What would you like?” her drawling southern accent was suddenly more refined, and her words decidedly polite, as if to stave off his attack of potential human connection.

Marcus sighed, then decided to let it go. “Latte please.”

She violently prodded the screen three times with her nail. “That’ll be five-thousand three-hundred dollars, thanks.”

Marcus winced. It was an automatic response. When he’d stopped using money on leaving the outside world four years ago, a coffee cost him in the vicinity of ten dollars. Since re-entering the world he had finally seen first hand the results of the hyperinflation that had been reported on daily in his news feed.

The Federal Reserve had been magically adding to the total sum of currency in a seemingly exponential curve. It was an attempt to somehow gain momentum enough to stay ahead of the asymptotically rising tsunami of fiat currency. The US Dollar was on its dying breath, though nobody in the legislative or economic sectors was saying so, since the President had been shot. In the last year, cash had been legislated against, and all bank notes were returned and converted into unencrypted digital dollars in order to ease the continuing overproduction of new money by the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, and to save them from having to mint or print larger denominations. When the hundred-thousand-dollar note had become prevalent, the American public became well aware that the end was nigh.

Now all US Dollar transactions were conducted electronically, authorised by fingerprint. The President, now dead, had been trying to shut down the Federal Reserve and was proposing to return the economy to a gold standard, but his enemies in the senate and in the financial sector were many, and the alternative media were claiming that the President’s assassination was perpetrated by cronies of the Fed, or perhaps his political enemies in Washington.

Hundred dollar bills were now being used as napkins and kindling. Ben Franklin’s face was now ubiquitously synonymous with obsolescence.

He pulled out his WellsTouch as he sat by the departure gate. The tablet instantly recognised his fingerprints and activated. A cheerful beep notified him of a new email from Ally.

Delighted, he opened it immediately and found only three words, and a symbol - We love you, X. A photo appeared, slowly tilting on his screen: Ally’s face and baby bump orbiting in parallax to the setting of their new Australian home.

He fixed his eyes on Ally’s enormous smile. Her hands were clasped over her bare tummy. She was in the nursery, with white painted wooden wallboards adorned with yellow bunting and a hanging mobile with a dozen tiny elephants dancing around each other. The mobile slowly rotated and Ally’s smile widened, the moving photograph capturing a tiny three-dimensional living moment.

After ten minutes of staring at the photo, Marcus’s cheeks started aching. He forced himself to relax, but he felt a combination of uncontrollable joy and the stinging of resisted tears. He noticed the feeling inside him. It was pain.

Why pain?

He didn’t understand. He was overjoyed to be only minutes away from boarding his flight to join his wife, with child in their new, safer life. But his heart ached.

He looked at Ally again and let himself lean into the feeling, so that he could understand it better. He thought of his father. He remembered his glazed eyes. The fog of alcohol and misery serving as a barrier between him and the man he so wanted to connect with. And here in his hands, was his wife, carrying his daughter, both trapped behind a pane of unbreakable transparent metal. The wall between them was not substance abuse, or emotional distance. It was a piece of machinery that they were trapped inside. And as he reached down and touched Ally’s face he felt only cold glossy metal. The pain of the memory of his absent father was replaced with a feeling of terror. Terror that Ally and the baby were truly trapped inside the machine; that he may never reach them.

“Irrational nonsense!” he muttered to himself. His focus shifted when he heard a voice coming from the huge display screen on the departure lounge wall.

“Earlier today Speaker of the House Nora Bronstein was sworn in as Acting President, making her the first woman to ever hold the office. Large crowds turned out to welcome her into her new position, and she was greeted with a great deal of...” the anchor-woman chuckled, “... I guess you would call it passion from the young people of Washington, is that right Randy?” she laughed again. The screen cut away from the newsroom to scenes from the enormous crowd in Washington DC, where tens of thousands of adolescents - some of them red-faced and weeping - were holding banners high in the air that read:

Finally, MADAM President.

The Patriarchy is Over!

Socialism Is For Everyone!

We Heart Nora.

President Bronstein Welcomes Refugees.

The screen cut back to the newsroom as the male anchor spoke.

“Yes, Diana, passion is one word for it. One thing is certain, our new President has some big changes planned, and I for one hope-” he choked on his word a little, and his forced smile was derailed. “I hope it works out.”

For a split second, his female co-anchor looked at him incredulously, then she quickly turned her own gaze to the camera lens and jumped back in, with her prescribed chipper demeanour. “And here she is herself, President Nora Bronstein with her inauguration speech!”

The screen returned to Washington. Nora Bronstein spoke at a podium. Her hair was a dyed mousy brown, with hints of grey shining through at certain angles. It was cut into an almost dome-like shape around her wrinkled, sagging face. Her eyes were very large, but dull and miserable. Around her jawline was a flap of skin that hung like the jowl of a Doberman. Her chin appeared to be an afterthought, snapped into a cavity like the last piece of a grotesque marionette. Marcus imagined it falling off and rolling down the steps of the Lincoln Memorial as she spoke.

“Thank you for your faith and support," she said through a crooked smile, gesturing towards the weeping pubescents and their banners, her voice growing shrill. “Yes! A female is finally in the highest office!” The applause began again. “I wish the circumstances were different, but nonetheless, that I am standing here and now sworn in as the President of these United States, I can tell you first hand that things are going to change for the better!”

The crowd roared and she waited for them to settle.

“For too long under our former leadership we have stood apart from our most cherished allies. As Russia was threatening war against the great European Union, our late President did nothing to stop them. In fact, he met with Russian President Vasiliev and negotiated to support him in his aggressions towards the brave freedom fighters spread across the great European state. This is not the America we want to be!”

The crowd howled again in hysterical support.

“I will not be meeting with Vasiliev. We have withdrawn our diplomats from Moscow and St. Petersburg. If Russia declares war as they threaten to, they will be declaring war with America too! Let’s see them try it now!” She grinned and threw her arms up in the air, evoking further frenzy.

“By dismantling capitalism and isolationism here at home, we will set a new example for the world. An example of unity! We have already begun negotiations with our colleagues in the People’s Republic of Mexico and with our good friends in Canada, to establish a Common Economic Area. Our three great countries will soon unite to stimulate employment and innovation and to equalise the benefits that we have enjoyed too exclusively for too long in America. Our new North American Union will follow the lead of those wise founders of the European Union, but unlike Europe we will not allow a minority of violent and hateful racists and xenophobes to divide us along religious and ethnic lines. Our great country has always been a melting pot of traditions and cultures, and we will further reduce the divisions of the world by inviting the free contribution and participation of our neighbours to the South and the North.

“Each of us are contributors to this society, to this great land. Each of us work in our own way, according to our ability, to make America a valuable contributor to the global society. Our sisters and brothers in Europe have reclaimed that once proud land and have fully embraced the inevitable glory of multiculturalism. It is tragic that a large number of racist and xenophobic bigots have taken up violence and espoused violent rhetoric against the recently migrated families, who have been culturally enriching the once predominantly white Europe over the last few decades. But the bravery of freedom fighters across Europe has removed the cancerous corruption of Right Wing hatred that had consumed the once great European Union. Out of the ashes, a new state has emerged; a state led by the ancient traditions of peace and faith.

“The North American Union will rise and assist the newly established Caliphate of Europe to enable the Religion of Peace that is now the majority ideology of Europe, so that all who reside there may benefit from its rich, beautiful, historical culture. I have already been in conversation with the high Imams and Muftis, and the Caliph himself to ensure that the violence in Europe will be stopped, to give way to the brotherly embrace that Muhammad’s Children have been working so hard to create.

“We stand united with Mexico, Canada and Europe in our battle against the inequity of greed. But in our own homeland, the battle is far from won.

“For too long greedy technologists have dominated the discourse and the direction of our society and in recent years they have hijacked our trade by hoarding their knowledge and innovations and holding the people to ransom through exorbitant prices that exclude the average American worker from access to the best facilities. Further, through the creation of their encrypted currencies, these modern day pirates are stealing your country from you. They have debased the dollar by their black market underground trading mechanisms which circumvent the rightful taxation obligations that each of us hold in order to create our perfectly fair and equal society, from each according to his ability.

“We must put a stop to this now to save America from the pit of greedy capitalism it has fallen into for too long. The rising tide has left us vulnerable to hatred and now we must snuff out that threat by taking out its mode of trade.

“As of this moment I regretfully but necessarily invoke emergency powers, in order to turn this sinking ship around and head back to the shore of social responsibility. Henceforth, trading or dealing in encrypted digital currencies is a criminal offence and will be punished most severely.

“Any of you out there who have accumulated a wealth of digital crypto-currency, consider it now worthless. If you continue to trade in these currencies, you will be found and stopped. Anyone in the possession of a crypto-currency, to remain free of criminal prosecution, must delete their account and forfeit their wealth by midnight tomorrow.

“There is also a growing black market of physical currencies in the form of gold, silver and rare jewels. For too long rampant individualism has been fuelled by the evil of materialism. Further devaluing our great American currency has been a return to trade in minerals, in defiance of our legitimate national currency. Our late President himself was manoeuvring to destroy the Dollar and cheat Americans everywhere out of their birthright to a comfortable standard of living, by returning to a gold standard; the outmoded symbol of bourgeois greed and merchant exclusivity. But a wealth of material goods only symbolises the growing gap between the classes, the races and the many genders.

“Mark my words, as long as I hold this office I will fight inequality with every power available to me. Henceforth, we are declaring gold, silver and precious jewels to be contraband items. Trade in these materials will incur harsh penalties, just like the encrypted digital currencies, and possession of these items will be seen as a criminal act and treasonous against the United States.

“Should anyone in possession of gold, silver and precious jewels wish to remain upstanding members of our society, they will turn in these contraband items to their local treasury office or police station in the same manner in which many Americans did when our last great President fourteen years ago made the disgusting possession and trade of ivory a criminal offence.

“We will not stand for a rising black market in these illegal currencies, and by coming down harshly upon those who wish to perpetuate the destruction of our country, we will set an example for all Americans to stand united and demand equality for all!”

Gooseflesh cascaded down Marcus’s back as he heard the tens of thousands of voices from the crowd screeching like banshees; not in disgust as they should have, but rather in ecstatic, orgasmic allegiance.

He looked at his gold watch, discreetly, and was glad that he had already passed through Customs before the gold embargo was enacted as law. In twelve minutes, Marcus would be boarding his flight to Sydney. He was surer now than ever that it was time to leave America.

The image of Bronstein’s melting face cut back to the anchors in the newsroom; the infallibly cheerful Diana, and the still despondent Randy.

“In related news,” began Randy, ready to declare the news item best suited to his apparent mood, “the death toll in Europe is reaching a record high. Another thirteen-thousand people were reported to have died overnight from the spreading pandemic of Doukkala Flu, most of them children and senior citizens. The death count from this deadly virus is fast approaching one hundred thousand. It’s believed that Doukkala Flu first appeared on sheep farms in Morocco, and while the epidemic caused the deaths of nearly three thousand people on the African continent, it has taken a much more severe toll on the lives of native Europeans. Researchers believe that Europeans are missing a particular gene that has given people of African, Asian and Middle Eastern descent a greater immunity to the virus.”

Diana seamlessly took up the story. “There are rumours that Russian scientists have developed a vaccine that is already being administered to Russian citizens, but given the rigidly isolationist position that President Aleksi Vasiliev has maintained, we are not able to confirm these reports at this time. To protect Americans, quarantine procedures are still in place at all incoming ports for anyone displaying symptoms of Doukkala. If you have been feeling unwell, please call this hotline to find out if your symptoms warrant a visit to your local Pandemic Control Centre for an examination.” An infographic appeared on the screen next to Diana’s head as she spoke.

Marcus felt his body involuntarily rock forward as someone sat down on the lounge chair backed onto his own. Someone quite tall, he felt, as the impact of the body in the chair was significant. He turned his head to bring the figure into his periphery. It was indeed a tall man in a brown coat, wearing a brimmed hat and holding an old-style laptop computer on his legs, on which he began furiously typing.

Ahead of Marcus in the departure lounge, a woman holding a toddler on her knees coughed. He shuddered at the thought of viruses erupting from her facial orifices and chose, in order to maintain his own sense of safety, to assume that she had not recently travelled to Europe or Africa.

The barrage of information coming at him from major news networks on the giant screen left him feeling propagandised. He had always preferred independent media outlets, particularly ones with an emphasis on facts, data and rational analysis.

He thought of Jeremy Delacroix.

What was he doing at Shangri-La? Why did he look so ill?

It had been a few years since Marcus had watched any of Delacroix’s video presentations on his philosophy website. The man was prolific in the production of them, and though ignored by the mainstream media, he was a person of interest to anyone who considered rational philosophy to be a valuable pursuit.

Marcus loaded Delacroix’s website to see if any clues were left in recent weeks. The most recent post was from a month ago, which was unusual for a man who added new content almost every day prior. It was a short video. Marcus touched the triangular symbol to play the clip.

“Hello, Jeremy Delacroix here, I hope you are doing well. I...” He coughed. A rattling, abrasive cough. He looked much like Marcus had seen him in the WellsHealth surgical pod. Grey; sunken.

Delacroix wiped his lips with his sleeve, and carried on. “I am not doing well. The doctors say I need to stop. That whatever time I have left is best spent with my family. With my daughter.” Delacroix looked deeply into the camera, and Marcus felt as if the philosopher was speaking directly to him. “Needless to say, every precious minute I have, I am holding Ariadne. Laughing with her until it hurts. Kissing her cheeks.” Tears were welling in his eyes. “But Ariadne and my wife are not my whole family. You, out there... you have stood by me for more than a decade. And, I like to think we have - in some way - changed the world. Many are awakened. Many have taken the red pill, so to speak. Many more people, you people, see the objective, rational truth of things.” He took a long, laboured breath. “These are dark times. We’ve been shining a light together. Now it’s up to you. Carry the flame. Carry the fire. Keep it alive!” His voice was louder, more passionate.

His accent and theatricality reminded Marcus of Eli. His rhetoric was stirring. Marcus had always thought that Delacroix would do so well in politics - he could have been President, were it not for his British heritage. But Delacroix was a self-declared anarchist. And he made a compelling case for the futility of statism and any kind of rulership. He stood, above all, for the freedom of the individual.

“I thank you all for your generous donations in these last months. I have had several surgeries, chemotherapy, and for a while there... things were looking good. But, in a cruel twist, the treatment that purged my body of the cancer that was eating it also left me vulnerable to infection. I don’t know how, but I contracted Doukkala. I had to travel a long way to Russia, which is where I am now, in quarantine, but my wife and daughter are with me. Ariadne has been picking up the language like a sponge. Ah... she’s so amazing to watch. Such a smart... smart kid...” His voice trailed off, and tears began to flow down his cheeks. “The doctors say it’s too late for me to have the vaccine. Yes, they do have a vaccine here. The media won’t report it though; it would shine too much light upon the failing public healthcare system of Europe, and the thriving medical industry that I find here in capitalist Russia!" His raging passion was firing up again. “Ah!” He caught himself indulging in a tangent, then chuckled as he wiped the tears away, “As always, the conversation goes on. But it’s up to you now, my friends. I planted the seeds for many of you, now it is up to you to nurture the tree of knowledge... and of truth.”

He took another long breath, then his face and voice turned grave. “This will be my last video. They say I have a month to live. I need to be with Ariadne now. Normally I end these videos with a request for donations. There’s no need for that now. My wife and daughter will be fine, we invested wisely, in secure crypto-currencies, and they will be safe for now in Russia until things settle down back home in America.

“My friends, thank you. It’s been a pleasure and a real joy, this life. I will leave it knowing that I made a difference. The rest is up to you now. Save us. Save our brilliant, wonderful species from our own insanity. Shine the light. Do it for your children!” Tears were flowing freely down his weary face. Marcus held back tears of his own. “This is Jeremy Delacroix. Goodbye.”

His hand reached up, and with the rattling of his palm over the camera lens, the video abruptly ended.

Marcus sat for what felt like a very long time staring through the blank screen of his transparent tablet. He was trying to piece it together. This was one month ago. Eli must have brought him in from Russia, hoping that his surgical pod could save him. I wish I knew...

The display screen on the wall caught his attention again. Anchor-man Randy was speaking with tremendous intensity. “We have a new story breaking,” he was clutching his earpiece, “shocking news from our correspondents in Colorado. Trillionaire technologist and entrepreneur Eli Wells was reportedly killed today in a tragic helicopter crash in the Rocky Mountains while test-piloting a new vessel designed by his company WellsTech Incorporated. He was reportedly the only person in the helicopter as it lost control and crashed into a mountainside, exploding on impact. Wells was never married and had no children, but leaves behind his great legacy of innovations that have revolutionised portable devices, motor vehicles and the medical industries.”

Before Marcus’s own shock could register, the man behind him jumped to his feet, causing the conjoined seats to rock, and knocking Marcus’s carefully placed coffee off the armrest and over his lap, tablet, and suit jacket. Marcus was not scalded, as he had long since forgotten about his five-thousand-dollar coffee, and it had gone cold. He was not immediately perturbed about his tablet, knowing that it was designed to operate underwater, in a vacuum, and in extreme temperatures without failure. But he couldn’t help but curse at the brown stain that he could see soaking into his brand new jacket and pants. While he looked down towards his ruined clothing, the tall man standing behind him said in a husky English accent.

“Sorry, old boy," and his hand reached down to proffer something to Marcus. Instinctively, Marcus took the small item from him and studied it, disbelieving of what he saw. “For the suit," said the man as he dropped his laptop into his bag and walked off.

Marcus sat, wet and stunned, staring at the tiny disc in this hand. It was a very small coin, of what looked and felt like solid gold. A picture of a bear was imprinted, and some characters that Marcus recognised as Cyrillic script.

Marcus’s skin crawled and for a moment his vision warped and bowed into a tunnel-like view of the coin in his palm. The coin, and his hand, seemed to be pulling away from him across space, his consciousness receding behind his own eyes into some cavity at the back of his head. The feeling was disconcerting, until he remembered what it felt like. He had seen this coin before, in his dreams. A Russian gold coin.

Why?

Suddenly connecting the coincidence of events, Marcus leapt to his feet and turned to look at the man. He was gone.

Marcus threw his wet tablet into his briefcase and prepared to make chase, when a voice suddenly shouted through the public address system.

“This is a message for passengers on flight WA1176 to Sydney, Australia. Boarding will now commence at gate 62 and we invite all first-class guests to board via the priority lane.”

Marcus felt compelled to chase this man down and find out who he was. But he thought of Ally and the baby. It was time to stop trying to find answers.

It was time to live.

He boarded the plane, and soon after was in the air, en route to Australia.