Freedom Club (35 page)

Flip remained silent. Looking at Shiro, he appeared like a small boy unsure what was expected of him.

Shiro grinned reassuringly and then toward the tank. “It will probably take more time for you to adjust. But I have faith in you, Flip. And you should be assured that your importance to our cause will only grow over time. I can’t share everything with you, but know that when the time comes, your participation will be critical.”

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Flip said, half smiling. “I just want to be part of something bigger than myself. As we always talked about before, rid man of the slavery imposed by...well, you know.”

“Ah, yes, understanding Moloch must still be confusing,” Shiro said, nodding slowly. “For so long, we discussed the intolerable oversight by Sentient Beings, and the regression of our society. It must have seemed that Sentients were the cause. Which they are to some degree, but you and I must find a way to regress more than one society. Kill Moloch and free both our races.”

Flip scowled. “But I have so many questions around that. I mean, I thought we were talking about a form of Primitivism...”

Shiro held up his hand. “Primitivism is not a fixed equation. It is relative to the society that applies it. Going back to nature in its most raw and untamed form is not practical, nor necessary.”

“But how can we know?” Flip pleaded “I mean, what’s practical in today’s world?”

Shiro smiled. “That’s hard to say. Clearly, we can’t live without some technology. One can’t say exactly what level is appropriate. But only one action makes sense given everything we know. Destruction of cities and mass regression. From this a natural balance will emerge. Remember your Ginsberg, your William Blake! Moloch! The worm! They’re one and the same. One bold decisive move, killing Moloch when he’s weak, then all will be free. Don’t you see? Free to choose a new path unfettered by technology’s blinding glare.”

Flip looked on with increasing confidence. Doubts still lingered deep within his gut, but he looked up to Shiro. Like the older brother he never had, the pastor of infinite knowledge. All the answers were there, if only he could cast away all questions and doubt. Become a true believer!

Shiro said, “I believe there is one particular verse in ‘Howl’s’ third section that you should find meaningful at this particular moment.”

“Yes?”

Staring toward the shimmering ceiling of ocean blue, Shiro gracefully read from memory. “I’m with you, Rockland, where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses. My God, Flip! Don’t you see?”

“I think so,” Flip said, trying to keep up.

Shiro continued with great excited. “When we free society, from the grasp of Moloch, everyone’s senses will be clear. For the first time! No distractions. Only a vast open ocean, for us to swim and explore.”

“Hallelujah!” Flip extolled.

Shiro looked at Flip momentary, then toward the tank. An exceptional large specimen floated past, its tentacles floating behind its body like angelic hair. The sight was breathtaking.

“Hallelujah,” Shiro breathed softly.

H
ollow eyed and exhausted, Sumeet looked on with arms crossed indignantly. “Not that I’m angry,” he finally said.

Shinzou replied as best he could. “Of course not.”

“But you haven’t told me the whole truth. And you nearly got me killed today.”

“Not intentionally,” Shinzou sniffed. “But in hindsight you’re quite right.”

Silence awkwardly lingered between them, and Sumeet could see that Shinzou, feeling quite guilty, was giving him ample time to express his feelings. With all his pent-up angst, he should have appreciated the gesture. He wanted nothing other than to lash out, scream at the top of his lungs. But what good would that do? The past could not be undone. With a deep and painful sigh, Sumeet just looked on disparagingly, and peered around his strange alien surroundings.

Their choice of location did little to remedy his mood. Offering little comfort, Sumeet remembered clearly his skepticism as they approached the northern mountains of Gifu. After landing in an uninhabited office complex, he watched in silence as Shinzou threw in another scrubber and sent their car off to self destruct. After looking around, Shinzou uncovering a nondescript entrance, and led them into the vestiges of an abandoned mine, now covered with a rich blanket of ivy and moss.

Sumeet recalled how his succulent green surroundings turned stone gray as the door locked behind them. It was all somewhat blurry, and he fathomed little as they passed several bolted doors and descended in an old-fashioned elevator that, to his surprise, came to life when Shinzou approached. With a few key strokes, the clunky steel box jerked its way deeper for what seemed an immensely long time. From there, they passed more heavy doors and entered into what appeared to be a large circular room. More like a giant tuna can, it offered the bare minimum: emergency fluorescent lights, flexi screens, terminals, stale air, and a ceiling low enough to inspire mild claustrophobia if one thought about it too much.

With nothing better to say, Sumeet just looked around his strange surroundings and huffed. “Where the hell are we, anyway?”

“This is one of our Freedom Club’s safe houses,” Shinzou said, gazing around. “It used to be a neutrino detector a long time ago, filled with tons of ultra-pure water and lined top to bottom with detectors.” He pointed to the far wall, which displayed a number of regularly spaced holes. “That’s what those sockets are. But this place was sealed up since the mine next door shut down operations.”

“But we got inside.”

Shinzou shrugged. “Abandoned mines are easily converted. Specific areas have been modified and left standing for contingencies, like today. The Freedom Club needs these sorts of facilities. It’s how we protect ourselves.”

“Okay, so that brings me to my other questions,” Sumeet said, taking a seat that creaked loudly from disuse. “The Freedom Club and your Sentient son, Henry David. The one you, uhm, illegally raised from infancy.”

Shinzou looked at the ceiling momentarily. “Illegal is perhaps not the right word, but that sums it up. Anyway, where would you like me to start? With Henry? Or with the Freedom Club?”

Sumeet blinked a few times. He hadn’t really thought which was more important. Confusion raged in his mind on so many levels. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like utter turmoil, a state that was becoming more frequent and, from his perspective, less appreciated.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “Okay, tell me exactly what the Freedom Club is. You mentioned it earlier, but quite frankly the whole concept isn’t clear.”

Pulling over another antiquated chair, Shinzou sat down in front of Sumeet and got comfortable. He seemed a little nervous. Sumeet stared back, and wondered if Shinzou had ever explained this coherently to anyone from the outside.

“The Freedom Club?” Shinzou began. “Well, it was the name of a so-called terrorist group led by Theodore Kaczynski back in the late twentieth century. Though it’s not clear. He called it a group, but all evidence showed that he worked alone. So, really, it was just one man, I guess.”

“Sorry,” Sumeet said, waving his hands negatively. “You mean to say you’re part of a group that names itself after a terrorist who died over one hundred years ago?”

“Well, yes and no,” Shinzou said guardedly. “From my perspective, it’s something else really. Though what that something is is subject to individual interpretation,”

“There you go again,” Sumeet gibed. “You excel at confusing things!”

Shinzou gestured apologetically with both hands. “Yes, let me give you a bit more background, and perhaps things will become clear. Theodore Kaczynski was a terrorist who pleaded guilty and remained in prison until his death. But, as far as we know, Kaczynski didn’t have any accomplices. He implied that he was part of an organization called the Freedom Club. But its existence was never proven.”

“So? Maybe he just made it up,” Sumeet suggested, “to fool everyone.”

“Perhaps, but I have an alternate idea that is a bit unconventional. It has something to do with Temporal Group Association.”

“Temporal Group A...what’s that?” Sumeet asked, shaking his head dismally.

“A form of group dynamics that takes place across time,” Shinzou explained. “You see, people normally associate with groups based on similar characteristics like socioeconomic status or ideological beliefs. However, group dynamics are normally tethered to a particular timeframe. We like to associate with people who surround us in the present.”

“Who else would you associate with?” Sumeet asked dumbly.

“There arise situations where a person is unable to connect with his group. This became relatively rare after mass communication was invented, but the phenomenon still occurs. Especially when the locus of group formation is on one particular, perhaps unusual, ideological issue. Taboo subjects, for example. A person then may be forced to associate with people outside his or her timeframe.”

Sumeet looked on nonplussed. “I’m still not following you. Are you talking about time travel?”

Shinzou scratched his head and sat back. “Hmmm, no, let me try another example that may make more sense. Are you familiar with poetry?”

“Poetry?” Sumeet said, raising an eyebrow.

“Hear me out,” Shinzou said, putting his palms together in contemplation. “It’s similar because poetry is an interesting form of artistic expression that is resilient over time. Like a messenger of basic ideas, it can echo through time, reaching people in the future that the writer is unaware of. Are you familiar with this concept?”

“I think so,” Sumeet said cautiously. “But I’m not sure where you are going with this.”

Shinzou explained. “A poem is like a message in a bottle, but the writer only wants the reader to understand, and make a connection to the emotion and meaning behind the poem. One assumes there is always someone who can, or will, understand.”

“You could wait your whole life, or be dead by then.”

“What does that matter?”

Sumeet cocked his head. “Don’t you think it is important that the poet be understood by someone? Everyone who writes and makes their work public expects, or at least hopes, to be read at some point.”

“Sure, but that point in time does not necessarily have to be within the life of the writer,” Shinzou said, swiveling in his chair. “What’s important is to finally connect with someone. In this way, the poem transcends time.”

Sumeet sat thoughtfully and nodded to himself. “Is that your point, then? A form of temporal communication, and group formation, one that unites people over an unspecific period of time?”

“Exactly! And that’s sort of what the Freedom Club is. Not a group in the same time and place, but spanning a continuum. All aimed at the same goal.”

“Which is?”

“To free man from the enslavement of technology. The Freedom Club believes that civilization entraps man into a never-ending spiral of socio-economic servitude. Industrialization and technology play off each other to fuel commercialism, materialism, greed, and a host of other bad habits. That’s what we fight against.”

Sumeet chortled. “And this Kaczynski fellow, he was the first member?”

“No, I just use the name he cooked up. But even though he was a terrorist fighting technology, he does fit the profile. Freedom Club members aren’t identified by their rank in society, just by ideology. Normally it’s published somehow. Written works like poetry, books, manifestos. Any document made public for the most part. We can also judge their actions – civil disobedience for example. Thoreau is a member by my reckoning too. Walden is exactly the kind of book that puts you in the club.”

Sumeet became agitated and began to pace around. “This is crazy! You can’t make a club when members don’t even know they’re members? That’s senseless! And they can’t even communicate with each other.”

Shinzou shook his head and sighed. “Once again, it’s like poetry, Sumeet. They know about each other through writing. Take Karl Marx, for instance. He wrote the Communist Manifesto and Das Kapital. He was an economist and believed in workers’ rights and freedom from unregulated industrialization. For the most part, he was fairly unknown during his life, but immensely important in later years.”

“Didn’t he go to Russia and start a revolution? Killed millions of people!” Sumeet spurted angrily.

“You’re thinking of Vladamir Lenin and Stalin, decades after Marx died. But it’s a good point. A big problem with any ideology is its misuse by others as a rationalization to kill.”

Sumeet looked puzzled and shook his head. “But that’s not always the case.”

“True,” Shinzou said. “You should be familiar with Gandhi. He looked at the works of Thoreau and based his campaign of nonviolent protest on a piece entitled Civil Disobedience.”

Sumeet thought to himself for a moment. “So, how many members are there in this Freedom club of yours?”

“Unknown,” Shinzou said with a big smile. “Henry and I spend lots of time arguing over them. And some members stand out more than others. Byron, Marx, Ginsberg, Thoreau, Kaczynski, Ellul, and even William Blake if you read into his poetry a bit.

“Ellul?” Sumeet said, looking askance. “Where did I hear that name before?”