U. knocked on the
rusted door. Lightly at first with his knuckles, but soon he was slapping it
with an open palm, so that the metal surface reverberated, and sent out chiming
vibrations like a Tibetan bowl. The deserted alleyway which lay behind him was bathed
in an acidic orange light, and he seemed to remember a darkened city street,
peddling itself like a cheap hooker just beyond the alley's apex.
No answer. U. knocked again,
deliberately and with more determination. He sighed and looked around, back towards
the way he came. The mouth of the alley loomed out onto the stiff darkness. The
dirty street was not visible. It's out there, waiting, like a predator, perched
and ready to pounce. But what does he know; what if the street is merely a
dream? Is there even a street?
Yes, there is; No pathos, please.
“What?” U. spun around to see a lean yellowed
face peering up at him. A being of small stature and dressed in a caftan made
of coarse fabric was standing just beyond the opened door. Its mouth was set,
and its black obsidian eyes radiated a reptile clarity.
“I said: No pathos, please. Come in,
U.”
The locked door now
opened up onto a decrepit, long corridor. The concrete surfaces were humid, and
a number of puddles reflected the meager white light. U. stepped in
uncomfortably, one wary step, and looked down the long hallway. Another metal
door could be seen at the far end, and above it a flickering fluorescent tube.
He peered at the host who regarded him steadily.
“I'm here for the Machine.”
“Yes, I know… Come in.”
“Right” U. stepped in a few more
steps, and the stranger closed the door behind them. The sound waves radiated
down the hall, a sonic wall that filtered through your pores, vibrated through
the flesh, and oozed out the other end. The guide moved down the hallway with a
whimsical air, occasionally lightly brushing the peeling, white-washed walls
with gaunt, yellowed fingers. Everything was wet and soggy, and the air smelled
of fungus the further down the corridor they proceeded. A moth flitted listlessly around an uncovered
light bulb which hung down from the ceiling like a cadaver. It swayed to and
fro, pitching the stark shadows back and forth across the walls.
“So, quite a place here, right? And
the Machine?”
“Yes, the Machine”
“Well, how is it doing?”
The
strange host paused in his gait to look U. directly in the eyes. U. could feel
a million centipedes crawling through his brain as the stranger probed and
prodded the tender recesses of his mind, the cobwebbed nooks and crannies of
his grey matter; all with those black, beady eyes of his. U. could feel that a
main nerve had been struck, and somewhere in his brain a meaty strip, about the
size of an almond, started throbbing and convulsing, like a leech left out in
the hot summer sun.
The stranger looked away, and all
the dire sensations immediately stopped. U. felt fresh, rejuvenated, and looked
at the world around him with the clear mind of a freshly cuddled child. The
tension in his shoulders disappeared, and his head became light as a feather.
His spine regained a startlingly natural position.
“It's doing great. It is the
Machine… Please, through here.”
The second door opened onto a large
warehouse space. The cracked whitewash showed large patches of the crumbling
bricks which lay underneath. Here too, all was soggy and decrepit, with rust
coating the metal surfaces of the opened doors, as well as of the rows of metal
pillars which receded ominously into the darkness stretching out ahead.
“So, when do I start?” His words echoed
through the large hall, and rebounded from unseen walls in a myriad of strange
angles. U. uneasily tugged at his shirt cuffs. He was perspiring, and the
humidity of the place was becoming unbearable.
“You have started. Please, follow
me.”
The host resumed his steady gait,
and could be seen shimmying along towards the other side of the space which lay
in darkness. U. followed him, and the endless abyss of the warehouse made him
feel very much agoraphobic.
The interior reminded him of
cathedrals he went to as a child. There, the ceilings stretched out and up into
recesses too mysterious to mention; all the way up to where the big G., or so
he was told, resided. He was apparently quite the fellow: stern but benevolent,
tending his flock with a loving gaze, but willing to get his hands dirty when
the going got tough and them no-goodnicks etc. etc.
For U., however, what mattered was
the abstract potential of that shaded realm beneath the cathedral's
domed ceiling. It was the inkling of the Unknowable known, of the Unnameable
named which thrilled U. to the deepest recesses of his, at that time still very
well functioning, bone marrow.
G. seemed to him more and more like a
beautiful woman, elusive and coquettish; the primordial lover, who, constantly
playful, albeit on occasion difficult made her way o—
Boom! The overhead fluorescent
lights came on with a flash and filled the large, formerly dark, warehouse
space with white light. U.'s eyes spasmodically tried to adjust. They drifted
towards the high ceiling, only to see the intersecting steel beams which served
to support the building's structure. So
very high above them, they created a static grid which carried the weight of
the roof, and prevented the sagging walls of the immense structure from collapsing
inwards.
The guide could be seen standing by
a small metal door, his hand resting on a large pull-down light switch. He was
looking at U., watching his reaction with no particular interest.
“Please, stop dreaming U., it is bad
for the Machine. Now, follow me.” Still attempting to get his bearings, U.
bowed his head, and entered through the small door.
He found himself walking down a hall of
immense proportions. Pieces of
technology could be seen littering the ground, piled into high spires that
reminded him of termite nests. Some of these mounds were connected to each
other with bristling wires, while others lay dark and inert, disconnected from
the larger network. A pinkish light filled the air, and a subsonic electric hum
persistently vibrated in U.'s ribcage. U. could feel the hairs on his forearm
standing to attention, as the currents of electricity blazed around them, a
perfect matrix of unseen energy. Televisions of all sorts and brands lined the
far walls, and were transmitting their content relentlessly. News feeds, CCTV,
sitcoms, footage of the Rwanda massacres, commercials; all of them mingled in
the pattern of an immensely complex Technicolor quilt.
A stooped figure could be seen
making the rounds from one TV cluster to another. Its hunched profile navigated
between the high piles of machinery with surprising efficacy, occasionally
climbing over some of the dead debris. It stopped for a while before some of
the TVs and watched them, only to soon continue on, sometimes pausing for to kneel
and check something at the base of one of the tall, lopsided spires. Under the
person's touch some of the nodes lighted up, while others powered down, their
lights ebbing away to darkness.
U.'s guide patiently waited for the
question.
“Who is that?”
“That is the Artifex. He maintains
and tweaks the Machine, so that people like you may experience it to the
fullest.”
“What does he do here?”
“He maintains and tweaks the
Machine, so that people like you may experience it to the fullest.”
U. took to sliding his fingers
across the surfaces of the lopsided mounds by which he passed. Some parts of
the spires were completely corroded, while others had a pristine metallic
shine, while still others gave off sparks or oozed a strange type of bluish
liquid which stuck to one's fingers and chilled the flesh. U. and his guide
slowly moved through the jagged environment, and the guide patiently waited up
for him when something peculiarly interesting occupied U.'s attention. The
stooped, dwarfish figure of the Artifex paid no attention to them, and shimmied
on as if they were not there. A deep hood shaded its face, and, although he
strained his eyes, U. could not make out its features. Who was he?
“You will know soon enough, U.
Please, over there. The Machine is waiting.”
The walls of the large warehouse
space were lined with narrow, tall, sliding doors made of a cheap tin metal.
The guide paused next to one of them, and motioned for U. to come nearer. He
slid the doors deftly open, and the rattle of the thin doors pierced U.'s ears.
He stepped forward.
“Come in. Welcome to your Machine.” The two of them
stepped into a small chamber. A padded reclining chair was connected to the
surrounding walls by monolithic curbs which presumably sheltered sheaves of
wires. All curbs and surfaces of the chamber were lined with dark, rubbery
tubes, which occasionally connected to larger metallic vectors. The room was
dark, and no sound yet escaped from the large contraption that nestled itself
around the small padded settee which sat directly in the middle of the cramped
room. The darkness was only pierced by a small aperture which looked up onto
the night sky. The softly diffused moonlight settled itself directly on the central
chair like a spotlight, giving it a seemingly white complexion.
U. walked around the chamber,
interested in every minute detail of the design. He saw large pistons being
bathed in the blue cooling fluid, their metallic bodies being washed over like
the faces of the drowned. Huge clusters of thin, white tubes lined the ceiling
corners, where they rested like huge beehives. They looked down onto the room
below, ominous, heavy, and seemingly about to tumble like a cluster of ripe
grapes.
Upon the touch of a button from the
guide, the room lit up and the large white beehives started flashing like
rainbow. The soft moonlight was ripped apart by the electric drizzle emitted
from the screens and dials of the contraption.
While U. was checking out the strange
interior, the guide started a monologue, speaking softly.
“This is your Machine. As you may
have noticed, there are many Machines, all lining the walls of the Central
Chamber. This means that not everyone has the same Machine as you do. They
vary, because the experiences vary. You see, the Machine is an enigma, a
labyrinth. It changes its physical properties - its circuits, its wiring, its
software, everything – based on the mental capacities of the user. The users come
together, and create its environment by themselves and for themselves. The
nature of this process is still a mystery, and only Him, that great Artifex
we've caught a glimpse of, knows the minute working s of it. And even he does
not understand all.”
“So what can I expect from it?”
asked U. while slowly running his palm over a large copper dial.
“You can expect all and nothing. You
will fuse with the larger system of the great Machine. What happens there stays
there for each to figure out for the self. It is a risk; it is an investment.
Some stay linked to the Machine for decades and decades. Eventually, they
atrophy, their mouths ooze a strange liquid, and their flesh turns rubbery and
non-responsive. Some choose never to leave the labyrinth, and rather fuse,
becoming one with that great, mysterious being.
Others enter the labyrinth's inner
sanctum, receive, and re-emerge.
You see, the Machine may be found everywhere,
connected with other centres all over the world. It is in constant flux; it
constantly evolves and morphs, growing new appendages, forming new connections,
while letting others atrophy. It regulates itself, do you see? In this,
it is an organism in the truest sense; yet, created by the celestial art of
man.”
Here the guide paused, and his eyes
roamed the chamber with an appreciative air.
“Have you been in the Machine?”
“Yes. But I am only a servant. The
Machine has been good to me.”
U. noticed the guide kneeling
mechanically by the door, his eyes still riveted on the glossy surfaces of the
wired walls around him. The being sat down on its haunches, and bowed its back.
Its forehead touched the ground with a metallic clink. Its back then returned
to its upright position and it proceeded to reach into a small pouch in his caftan,
pulling out a little copper card. It then got up and, with that peculiar
rhythmic gait, walked over to the nearest greenly flashing terminal. The screen
of the terminal was filled with algorithms, occasionally flashing geometrical
shapes which mingled and coalesced into twirling, dynamic, psychedelic
patterns, their permutations seemingly inexhaustible.
“Are you ready to fuse?”
“Yes.” said U. and his voice was
surprisingly calm.
“Then sit down.”
U. proceeded to sit down into the
soft settee which enveloped him like a bean bag chair.
“Ab antiquo ad aeterno,”
mumbled the guide and proceeded to swipe the copper card into a slot next to
the main terminal. The Machine clicked and whirred, a myriad valves and lifter
galleries sliding into place; it started its mad dash towards oblivion. A large
headset, until then suspended a few feet above the central chair descended
ominously onto U.'s face. Its touch was soft and rubbery, and U. could only see
blackness. His body relaxed into the strange contraption, and his senses
bristled with expectation.
Then an explosion of colour and
sound filled his brain until it overflowed with electric sensation and U.
settled in for the long haul.
Jim Stein
