“Fear not for the future, weep not for the past.” Percy Bysshe Shelley
Aleister Parker had belonged to Emily Parker. They to each other. Two anomalies possessing more sensitivity and empathy than brainpower bandwidth — so they combined forces. Genuine soul-mates. She believed in reincarnation. He was a friendly skeptic. Then she died.
Emily Parker told him their very first day about her recurrent dreams of the dark dwellings she had spent time in alongside the Atlantic Sea on the northern coast of France. Antiquated semicircular arches pressing heavens like white-sugared blueberries.
They knew it was that giant city of forts and rivers — Paris — to the eastern-south feeding the huge smoky fires. Two hundred kilometers distant, two centuries back. Creosote and ash vanquishing cirrus grids leaving behind vast emptiness grander than forever.
He, Aleister, rummaged in his back pants pocket. Passed to her the randomly creased vellum of indeterminate age and origin. Graphite vectors razor-sharp, and transitory grays smudged its pale translucency. Mysterious golden reflections made of tiny molecular dots deeper than physically possible glinting like inverted star constellations.
Like this? She parsed the embedded images of violence scrubbing away abusive monarchy regressive taxes hunger and disease. Looping anew… Yes! You drew this? You’re an Artist? A Mind-Reader? No! One day it just showed up… don’t know… kept it. For you. Take it.
Angela Weiss put down the luscious bacon to drain on the paper towels. If there was a “Greener Solution,” it was yet to be found. Slid the empty pan into the stainless sink. Poured moderately cool water. Nobody getting burned by steamy bacon pans! Rapidly misted a pale lemon-scented bio-cleaner to weaken the remaining food traces. Ran toward the stairs to the floor-two guest-quarters. Aleister!
Olympian strides for someone so small, built like a Kewpie, and born way back in 1929! She dashed into the Parker Boy’s guest-quarters. The bathroom door open. Parker was white, whiter, and arterial. Eyes swollen puffed. What had he done? He clutched a blue plastic Personna Twin-Shaver in his right hand, forgotten. Barbasol and blood merged pink into the cotton-blend fibers of the V-necked undershirt freshly removed from its package. The fold-marks unpressed. Emily…
Vitor Weiss, of course, heard the ruckus. Large feet bare and tough as the purplish Black Walnut planks propelled him northbound through the hall to Parker’s room, a mirror-image of his own place. Vitor had been dreaming, until that Aleister Parker began howling like a wolf again — as he did last evening in the Ebony Vette, racing along Ocean Boulevard. Although today’s “Morning Wolf” wasn’t happy!
Cyborg! Vitor had fallen asleep thinking of Cyborgs. Cybernetic Organisms. Angela had told him, Vitor, HE WAS Synthetic-Organic, NOT Cyborg. Synthetic was more sublime.
Erik Parsons, Angela’s Biological Father, was over one-hundred years. His world consisted of synesthesic visions, disciplined goodness, and a natural tendency to explore unconventional thought. Another man with worse luck, or living in a less forgiving historical period would have ended institutionalized, tortured, or dead by the hands of the ruling power brokers.
A person his age could afford to delegate, to promote good-spreading. He already was aware young Parker was panicking two floors down; why shouldn’t the boy be? He’d been through a lot. A manageable situation; yet not trivial.
Erik Parsons scrolled the ultra-portable-dual-core-carbon-fiber-turbo PC. Parsons was an Engineer specializing in Generalism. That Laptop Machine wasn’t CLOSE to mainstream, although it looked very plain. Like Vitor’s Monkey-Mind-Machine.
The Laptop was nearly as smart as Vitor Weiss. Parsons had designed part of that source code, also.