Influx

  And longitude? Forget longitude. He’d have to have his starting point and record the passage of time and velocity. But he’d been brought here in the delta-wave-induced sleep the BTC was so fond of. He simply awoke in his neat stone cottage at the edge of a cliff overlooking the boundless blue.

  A garden, low stone walls, and a circuitous path comprised his new world. Early on he’d traversed the entire island, looking for a way down to the water’s edge, but even though he’d walked every yard of the mile-wide landscape, it was ringed with towering cliffs. No trees dotted the terrain either, just hardy windblown shrubs and grasses. His fireplace was fueled by peat, which appeared mysteriously every time he returned from his morning walks. So, too, did his food, water, milk, and wine. He’d tried to catch his provisioners in the act. No luck. They were like gnomes. For all he knew they were gnomes; no doubt mythical creatures were within the biotech capabilities of the BTC.

  Grady pondered a pale crescent moon in the midday sky. Even this ghostly white apparition was sharply detailed. Everything was pristine out here. The only intrusion was the occasional detritus from the modern world washed in among the rocks below. Plastic barrels, shipping pallets, or on one occasion a section of advertising billboard with French writing on it. He had a pair of binoculars that he used to scan the horizon, hoping to signal some ship to rescue him from his Elba-like exile. But his captors probably left the binoculars so he could know how utterly hopeless his chance of rescue was.

  Grady closed his scratchy wool jacket against the wind. It was coarse with wooden buttons, and he had soft leather boots that laced high up his calves. Canvas pants and tunic. He looked like some sourdough islander, living rough off the land. In the past few months his long hair and beard had grown even longer.

  The irony.

  A high-tech despotic organization had exiled him not only from society but also from modernity itself. And from all social contact. So that his mind wouldn’t “poison” the world.

  The chill wind picked up, so Grady headed back to the distant cottage and its inviting column of peat smoke. He picked his way carefully along the cliff-side path, listening to the terns squeal overhead. More than once he’d contemplated leaping from these heights, but depressed as he was, he still couldn’t bring himself to end his life. Depressed, yes. But not yet without hope. Not yet. And in some ways this solitude was a childhood friend.

  Before long Grady pulled open the thick plank door of his cottage and entered the warmth of the space inside. One room, but spacious enough for a kitchen, with a wood stove, a table, pots, pans, a writing desk, a large feather bed, and a toilet that drained out to the cliffs below through a channel. It was a simple existence, but the months had brought about a change in him. As horrible as things were, those problems seemed strangely over the horizon. His captivity, the revelations that the BTC covered up advanced technologies, that his own gravity research, his life’s work, had been stolen by them—all these seemed like worries that could only restart once he got off this island prison. Until then, he tried to keep his mind busy on more positive concerns—like devising a means of escape.

  So far it didn’t look good. Even if he could fashion a raft from the materials in his cottage, how would he reach the water? Even if he reached the water, a group as technologically advanced as the BTC would probably detect him immediately. No hiding out in the open sea. They were no doubt scanning every inch of it with sensors.

  So he passed his days thinking, and lately not just about escape.

  Grady removed his scratchy coat and hung it up on a peg by the door. He passed by his writing desk, flipping through his papers. He had plenty of paper and pens but only one book. They had provided him with a slim leather-bound volume, its title etched on the spine in gold leaf: Omnia. The first time he flipped through the book’s vellum pages, they were entirely blank—except for one page on which the words “While I’m open, ask me anything” were written. He tried writing questions on the facing page but couldn’t mark the surface. In frustration he finally spoke aloud the first thing that came to mind.

  “How do I get off this island?”

  Suddenly the pages filled with text and images relating to his own gravity research, including a table of contents on the first page and an annotated bibliography in the back. He flipped through the newly filled pages, and noticed hyperlinks that when tapped refilled the book with more detailed information. In this way he zoomed in and out of his research papers, poring through the thousands of pages of lab notes, diagrams, spreadsheets, and test results from years of work—everything he and Bert had written. Even the handwritten Post-it notes had somehow been recorded and projected onto the vellum pages. Photos of the gravity mirror apparatus being constructed, the works he’d read on kinematics, Ricci curvatures—everything he’d ever absorbed on quantum mechanics. It was endless.

  The book was clearly some form of advanced technology—for while the pages appeared to be quality vellum, they acted like high-definition digital displays. A private Internet. Yet no matter how hard he examined the material, he couldn’t see any flicker. The text seemed physical—like quality ink. Neither did the book have any apparent battery or power connector. It looked and felt like a very old encyclopedia. He opened it again to the title page and spoke the words, “What does Omnia mean?”

  The current page went blank and was replaced by the word Everything.

  Grady had nodded to himself, then said, “Teach me ocean navigation.”

  The pages quickly filled with articles on sea navigation, but large sections appeared to be redacted with black bars and boxes—concealing the most necessary details.

  Grady then demanded, “Show me small-boat building techniques.”

  Again, the book filled with censored articles, the images and text blacked out, only their promising titles revealed—as if in spite.

  Not an Internet then but a redacted virtual library. All of it tightly controlled. And as if to demonstrate how controlled it was—it returned results but didn’t let you see them. Only offering answers deemed harmless or helpful to its masters. But how was it able to determine what to censor almost instantaneously? Obviously some highly advanced technology.

  But then, it had to have some wireless technology in it to transmit requests and receive data—a radio transmitter and receiver. Probably low power, but he might be able to rig something like a shortwave device. Make an antenna. Boost the signal. He spent the next several days trying to tear the book apart to cannibalize it, but it was made of sterner stuff than he expected. Even cutting or tearing the pages was beyond him with knives, fire, or brute force. The leather was just as durable. Smashing it, crushing it—nothing so much as scratched it. There must have been some major advances in materials science he was unaware of. Probably fashioned of carbon lattices or something similar. He had to admit that their technology was formidable.

  At some point Grady closed the book and never picked it up again. It now sat on his shelf beneath a crystalline rock he’d found inland.

  His experience with the disarmingly high-tech “ancient” book made him suspicious about the paper and pens, too. At first he was determined not to use them, reasoning that his captors would use advanced tech to monitor whatever he wrote down. But then he’d rediscovered an old pastime he hadn’t thought about in ages.

  He started writing music again.

  When he was young, he would sometimes ponder the tones he heard in math. After teaching himself to read music, he decided to try his hand at composing—although he had little interest in traditional music. Now he decided to cultivate one, and the BTC could monitor it if they liked. They would be his audience. He wished he had a piano or guitar, but he could always play the music in his head. It amused him to think of his BTC captors trying to derive the deeper meaning from this work. To the best of his knowledge there wasn’t one—just a pleasing, fractal symmetry.

  Grady picked up
a piece of parchment covered with musical notations and ran through several movements of an amateur symphony, waving one hand as if conducting. He laughed to himself. He was writing a goddamned symphony. It was a ridiculous thing, and he never would have done it in a million years if he weren’t a prisoner.

  And it wasn’t going well. He wondered how Mozart, Beethoven, and those guys did it. He had some good movements, but unifying the whole was a mother—he wasn’t going for Copland’s Billy the Kid here. He was going for beauty, a mournful melancholy like that inside him. But he seemed to lack the vocabulary. He had to admit that for all his talents, music was not one of them. It did not come as easily to him as math—even though the two fields seemed in some way related.

  Grady walked over to the kitchen to see what the gnomes had brought him. They always placed his food supplies on the kitchen table in wax paper bundles bound with twine. He sniffed them separately. Some white fish. A packet of salted pork. Vegetables. Sweet butter. Fresh loaves of bread—not soft French or Italian stuff but sturdy dark loaves that lasted several days. Milk. Water. Another jug of red table wine. He always resisted the temptation to finish off the wine in a binge, instead having a mug with dinner and no more. There were plenty of reasons to want to drown his sorrows, but he knew they were watching him; he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing how hopeless he felt. He’d searched for cameras and microphones for weeks after he’d arrived—dragging every stick of furniture out of the place. But if the BTC was using surveillance devices, they were too small or well concealed to detect.

  It was the same every week. Fresh supplies came when he was out. If he tried to spy upon his benefactors, then the supplies did not come, and he went hungry. Several times he searched for hidden doors but always came up empty. So he’d decided to forget about it. It was the BTC. No mystery, but apparently they didn’t want him to have companionship. So he took his daily walk, and on Foodday (as he’d taken to calling it), the food arrived. There were seven days in Grady’s week, and he’d used them to create a calendar that he tacked to the wall: Foodday, Cookday, Exerciseday, Workday, Writingday, Watchingday, Escapeday. He kept the schedule as a way to stay sane. Structure was important to keep the human mind from getting lost.

  Grady stared out the distorted, rustic window glass at the dark sea far below. A bank of fog was coming in from the north. It was the evening of Foodday. Schedule or no, his mind was indeed starting to get lost.

  I might grow old and die here.

  What had happened to Bert and the others? He wondered that several times a day. Had they taken up roles in the BTC? He couldn’t picture that. Then what happened to them? Were they on some island, too? And why place any of them on an island? Why, in fact, did they let them live at all? They clearly had all Grady’s gravity research. They didn’t need him. He was a liability. Why keep him around?

  Hedrick had suggested that this prison would change his mind, but this was simply banishment. Banishment to the Iron Age.

  He laughed. Isn’t that what Richard Cotton’s group, the Winnowers, stood for—returning mankind to the Iron Age? Grady could become a member now.

  He’d had way too much time to contemplate these things in the past few months. He kept turning them over and over in his head. Had he been wrong to tell the BTC to piss off? Not that he could lie to them, but what good was he doing by sitting on this rock for the remainder of his days? Surely that wasn’t going to slow them down or stop them one iota. And this way he couldn’t influence how they’d use his breakthrough. He wouldn’t have a seat at the table.

  Grady felt defiance rise in him.

  It was the principle. Wasn’t it? He knew he could not ethically assist the BTC in covering up fundamental discoveries that would advance mankind’s knowledge. The BTC’s simulations of progress-borne disaster had to be wrong—he felt it in his bones.

  But what sort of assertion was that for a scientist to make? They had evidence. He had a “feeling.”

  But he’d never seen their evidence, had he? It all seemed too convenient. They justified their domination of others—but who could say they were even being honest with themselves? Just look what they were willing to do in pursuit of their mission. Was Grady’s wasting away on this rock really a good use of brainpower?

  And yet there were many historical precedents for this—periods when belligerent ignorance trumped reason.

  During the Roman Inquisition, the Catholic Church had done something similar with Galileo—condemned him to imprisonment in his own home. To never publish again. The church wanted to suppress the spread of knowledge during the Enlightenment—to maintain its control. It went so far as to have church officials searching through the private libraries of dukes and other nobles, looking for passages in books that offended the church, literally crossing out ideas that violated church doctrine and scribbling official church doctrine in its place. Agents of the inquisition were stationed in ports to find seditious books coming in by sea. Grady couldn’t help but think that the church was, in a way, the BTC of the seventeenth century.

  No. This situation wasn’t new. And Grady knew which side he needed to be on. The side of reason.

  Grady’s manipulation of gravity would change civilization. But was that so bad? Change could be good. Of course the BTC wanted to stop change—they were currently in charge. And that’s what the church thought it was doing by preventing Galileo’s ideas from spreading. Preventing change.

  But it didn’t work, did it? That gave Grady some measure of hope.

  Okay, you’re comparing yourself with Galileo now.

  Grady stared through the window at the darkening sea for untold minutes as thoughts rolled around in his mind. Was the BTC right about Grady’s ego? Was Grady really making this all about him? Was he an egomaniac?

  Just then there was a knock on the cottage door.

  Grady spun toward it. His heart raced as adrenaline coursed through him. It had been months. No one had ever knocked on his door. Were they coming for him again? He looked around uncertainly, but then resolve came over him.

  Grady shook his head slowly. No. He would not give them the satisfaction of being afraid.

  He approached the thick wooden door confidently and pulled it open by its wooden latch.

  On the doorstep stood a slim humanoid robot, not unlike the one he’d seen in Hedrick’s office all those months ago. This one was surfaced in brushed-steel panels. It had glowing tourmaline eyes and no mouth. It was different enough from a human that no uncanny valley effect occurred—clearly a machine. It had an appealing design, like an upscale espresso machine. Obviously it was meant to seem friendly. Harmless.

  The robot nodded to him and a vaguely familiar female voice spoke: “Good evening, Mr. Grady. I wanted to see how you were settling in.”

  Grady stood aside and dramatically swept his arm. “Come on in. I’d offer you a drink, but . . .” He let his voice trail off.

  The robot was inscrutable as it stepped gracefully inside. “Thank you.” It looked around. “I’m a person, you know. This is just a telepresence unit.”

  “Telepresence. Nifty. You guys imprison the person who invented that, too?” Grady closed the door.

  The robot managed a nonplussed look and moved through the room to gaze out the window at the ocean. “Do you remember me?”

  “How could I forget? Alexa. You were more lifelike last time I saw you . . . but not by much.”

  “I’m here on official BTC business.”

  “You’re not here, actually. You’re just a walking phone. Anyone else in on this conference call?”

  “Our conversation is being recorded for the file, yes. But then, everything is recorded for the file.”

  “Well, for the file then: What the fuck do you want?”

  “You look in good health. Have you been treated well?”

  “Yeah. Fine. Just fine.” He snapp
ed his fingers. “Although there was that rough patch when you guys”—Grady pounded his fist on the kitchen table—“STOLE EVERYTHING I CARED ABOUT!” A bowl and stoneware mug went flying and shattered on the floor.

  The robot just stared at him.

  “How do you think I’m being treated?”

  The robot waited several moments. “Most of the innovators we harvest manage to find calm after a period of solitude. They use the time to reflect—on both what was lost and what can still be gained.”

  “You have got to be joking.”

  “As your BTC case officer, I came to offer you another chance to join us, Mr. Grady. Now that you’ve had a chance to reflect.”

  “I see. So I’m supposed to just forget that you guys are deliberately keeping all of humanity in the Dark Ages. That you stole my life’s work. That you imprisoned me.”

  The robot resumed its tour of the cottage. “All of that is a regrettable necessity, but we’ve been over this. Complaining about it won’t change anything.” The robot picked up one of Grady’s symphony parchments from the desk, turning it around.

  “Put that down.”

  “Does your synesthesia also make you musically gifted? Interesting . . .”

  Grady moved toward her to grab the paper, but just then the sound of his own music filled the cottage. Violins. And a French horn. It played for a few seconds, then stopped.

  The robot lowered the page. “Apparently not.”

  “It’s a work in progress.” He grabbed it from her and collected all the other papers from the desk. “Why are you even bothering me? You don’t seriously expect me to forgive all this and join the BTC, do you?”