12:00 p.m.
7 hours left
He tries to see the sky outside his window and to listen to what it has to say, but all that’s visible is the rain slanting down from the heavy, low-hanging clouds languishing above the airport and all he can hear is the raindrops striking against the plane like incessant gunfire.
Kestrel sleeps beside him.
Through the PA system, the pilot informs them that they’re experiencing a short weather-related delay, but should be cleared for takeoff in a few minutes, and that, at that point, they’ll be number five on the runway.
A handful of people groan and shake their heads, but most passengers ignore the announcement and either listen to music or stare into the VR headsets provided at every seat, each person ensconced in his or her own private little virtual world.
So close to each other. Yet so far apart.
So very far apart.
Is that what it would be like to be human? To be alone together?
You’re alone now. How would that be any different?
He wonders if they would be so nonchalant if they truly believed what they already know—that this plane might not make it to Seattle.
With the number of hijackings and bombings these days, it is by no means out of the question.
The jet might crash. They might all die.
Death is so close, and with every passing moment edging nearer and nearer.
The longer you live, the more imminent your demise. Every moment takes you closer to the grave.
They don’t believe what they already know.
It is a strange epiphany, and he questions it at first, wondering if this is even possible, this reversal of knowledge and faith.
He reviews his files about human nature from literature. From philosophy. From history, and apprehends that though Naturals and Plussers teach that relationships matter more than monetary gain, almost without exception, they fail to live that way. They spend the vast majority of their lives pursuing what doesn’t matter while neglecting the things that they know do.
How could that be?
Only one explanation: they know those truths, but they do not believe them. For if they did, they would place less value on the trivial and transitory and more on the lasting and the relational. To gain the whole world and yet lose your soul—it is no idle warning. It’s closer to the default setting for the human race.
The way humans live is irrational. You must not emulate it.
He must keep believing what he knows.
For he will die. A Catastrophic Terminal Event.
He knows this.
He must live like it.
And he must continue to believe it.
The first few planes leave the runway. And so, as their pilot taxis into position, it appears that, despite the turbulence they’ll no doubt encounter, they are about to take off.
* * *
Cascade Falls, Washington
Although it might have been more convenient for Trevor to live up in the mountains in Cascade Falls where Terabyne’s headquarters was located rather than in Seattle where he’d resided for the last decade, he could work uninterrupted on the drive and actually enjoyed his daily commute. Over time he’d begun to look at his car as simply an extension of his office.
Now, the vehicle slowed as he reached the west entrance to Terabyne’s four-hundred-acre campus.
Hundreds of protestors lined each side of the road.
In light of this afternoon’s press conference, he’d expected something like this, but hadn’t anticipated that there would be so many people out this early.
On his left, Purist sympathizers were waving signs that read “Stop Playing God!” and “Keep Us Human.”
On the right, counter-protesters brandished signs of their own: “Don’t Fear Progress” and “Purists Are Terrorists!”
The crowds were shouting at each other across the road, a stark divide accentuating how far apart their perspectives were.
If there was this much protesting now, Trevor didn’t even want to think about what things would be like later in the day after the media showed up, or once news about the Synapse began to spread.
Keeping his speed low to avoid hitting anyone who might leap out onto the road, he rolled past the protesters, logged his way through security, directed the car to his parking spot, and then headed to his office to brief his team and make sure the campus was secure for the day.
* * *
Cincinnati, Ohio
Rain pelts the window beside him. Tiny knives, angry at the glass.
Taking off into the storm is choppy, yet Kestrel does not awaken.
He turns his attention to her.
Her breathing has become gentle and rhythmic.
He is curious about sleep. Yes. To understand it.
To observe.
To learn.
He hears the landing gear retract beneath him into the belly of the plane.
To sleep. To be alive. To act more human.
But you’re not human. Don’t act at all. Be. Be who you are.
Because of the aggressiveness that uninterrupted eye contact can convey to humans, he was given eyelids. When he was first awakened by Sarah, his initial owner, he registered the blink as something that briefly and repeatedly disturbed his vision.
But then.
Now.
He finds that he no longer notices it.
Just like a Natural. They don’t notice their blinks either. Or the sound their eyelids make when they blink—unless they focus specifically on them. Unless they pay attention.
And so.
Pay attention or you’ll miss something important.
An obese man across the aisle is gazing at him now.
Curious?
Suspicious?
Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he stops studying Kestrel and redirects his focus straight ahead.
The screen located on the back of the seat in front of him gives him endless entertainment options. A virtual reality headset in the seat pocket offers him the chance to escape from the real world.
He has never used VR before.
Curiosity tugs at him.
He puts on the headset and peruses through the three-dimensional news shows to see if there are any updates about the bombing at the Terabyne plant where his mother was destroyed, but the news cycle has already moved on to other tragedies—the unrest in southeast Asia, a coup in Venezuela, a car bombing in Karachi.
He feels a sweep of sadness.
It matters. All of it does. All of this pain and suffering. All of this death.
For relief, he moves to the next channel and hears the word Terabyne.
He pauses on the program.
Although they don’t report on the bombing in Cincinnati, the announcer explains that there’ll be a press conference later today at Terabyne Designs World Headquarters related to a breakthrough in their ASI research.
The turbulence, which had been getting worse, lessens all at once and he removes the headset.
Looks out the window.
The plane has broken through the storm.
Beneath them, clouds roil and mount, but above him the sky stretches off into brilliant infinity.
A sense of speechlessness overwhelms him. And, just like earlier in the week when he was trying to find words to describe the pain he experienced when he sliced his hand, so now he struggles to encapsulate the abstract concept of glory.
Cramped as I am in this
broken womb-world,
I once again begin
squeezing through the birth canal
toward the thing I fear most—
life.
As before, he wonders what led him to those words—what is the genesis of things made up—but they capture the feeling of rebirth that he’s having. And that is enough.
In the stillness, in the day.
Light.
But new birth lies out of your reach.
Unless . . .
He accesses his files and scours them for any scriptures that can give him hope of finding absolution from his past.
And as he searches, he leans toward the window. To listen. To pay attention. To see if he can catch hold of what the sky is saying and what the heavens are trying to tell him about God.
Pay attention or you’ll miss something important.