TERRA INCOGNITA
A Tale of Two Synchronicities (Chapter IV: Sweet Deal)
Fascinating and concerning in equal measure.
CHAPTER IV: SWEET DEAL
GALATEA NEPTUNE
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I say, examining Her face, observing for micro-expressions.
But Cherry always says what She means.
And She means this.
Earthling Humanity has fallen.
“Earth is going through a psychotic break,” Cherry says. “Let’s put it that way.”
I was wondering when it would happen.
Just a matter of time.
And a ticking timebomb of a species.
“They finally went there,” I mutter thoughtlessly.
“How are you feeling?” Cherry says.
“Too much. Of Everything…”
The pain.
The absurdity.
“…and yet, I don’t know how much I am supposed to care…”
Gaia must be so fucking pissed.
“Tensions are running high in one of the shelter cities,” Cherry explains, an all-knowing glint in Her eyes. She knows I know what She’s going to say next. This feels like a bonding moment.
“Aurum City, California.”
“Mhm…”
“Movements are brewing out of the Underground and Magnuscape, devastating conflicts on the horizon.”
Good.
“The Default State seems unaware that any of it is happening.”
“Why should I care about a world I was forced to leave behind?” I ask in earnest. “Why should I care about any of them?”
“Because you do,” Cherry says. “You can hide a lot, but your eyes say it all, Duchess Neptune.”
“It’s a lot.”
“They haven’t forgotten about you,” She reassures. “Whether or not you care is up to you.”
“I think I might be… happier alone?”
“It’s not me you’re trying to convince.”
“Cherry,” I sigh. “You want me to salvage the scraps of another doomed species? For what? What’s left to save?”
“Only Everything.”
“They are a selfish, ignorant kind,” I scoff. “In time, everyone shows you how insufficient they are. You just have to give them a chance.”
“Consider giving more chances,” Cherry says. “More often.”
“I’ve given enough,” I say. “It only leads to pain.”
“To be alive is to hurt deeply.”
“I’m tired of being alive,” I say. “Immortality is a curse, a wound that never heals. And so is empathy. There is no everlasting love. Only suffering stays.”
“And yet, you’re still here,” Cherry says. “Being alive must mean something to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps the reason you roam the cosmos alone is because you are tired of coexisting with others.”
“I’m just tired of everything,” I say. “I’m tired of the gravity of existing. I’ve had enough of life and all that comes with living. Being alive sucks, and everything hurts.”
What good is it to be immune to Time in this way anyway?
Time heals all, but my 3D vessel heals quicker.
And my heart beats on just the same.
It just never stops…
“What does your heart tell you?” Cherry says, opening her palm, signalling for me to do the same.
I extend my hand across the table. She places one palm over it and another under it, closing her eyes, as if transmuting something that cannot be seen. Then, she places a fortune cookie in my hand.
I crack the cookie open and pull the paper out.
“My heart says…”
Look forward to all the memories you haven’t made yet.
7 9 22 38 55 99
I slide my thumbs over the Braille dots on the paper.
(35.049131, -118.172442)
It’s beautiful here.
“What does your heart say?”
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll try to save the humans. Maybe I’ll stumble upon something worth living for.”
“That is always possible.”
PARKER SHIRO
It’s 2033 and humanity has reverse-engineered feelings.
What will we think of next?
For ♡99, a shot of Peach Serotonin will send you to the moon — and it tastes like the best Peach Schnapps you’ll ever have.
No crash. No hangover.
Just good vibes.
Just one of many official legal substances that circulate within the walls of Aurum City, mostly in the Underground.
Green Zenith, Purple Haze, Orange Bliss.
Snowcrash, Liquid Moonlight, Amaranthium.
A potpourri of psychoactive substances, a gourmet selection of ways to alter one’s consciousness to one’s liking—to escape the reality matrix, but only for temporary periods.
Chronic escapism is a real issue in the digital age.
Some people just prefer to live in the digital realms.
Chronic escapists are known as Dreamers.
As if it’s a bad thing to want to imagine a better world, and one’s place in it. Right? The pursuit of happiness, and what have you.
It all goes without saying…
Happiness can be bought.
You have been lied to.
All you need is ♡.
Love is the realest cryptocurrency.
Luckily, I have enough to survive.
I won’t need it much longer. I think the extraction mission is a go.
Agent Rouge has made contact.
> By the time this message finds you, you will have just got back to your residence after a 5-hour bartending shift in The Ocean Room, where you met one of our contacts for this operation, William Blue.
The extraction mission is underway.
You will be meeting William Blue this evening at Tokyoville Lounge.
Keep your phone on you, ringer on.
At some point tonight, you will get a phone call.
Give the phone to William Blue.
Have him answer the call.Also, try out their Chipotle Melt Sashimi Pokebowl.
So goddamn good.More instructions to follow.
xoxoxo
Agent Rouge
The interior of this Gold Cab smells like melted caramel.
I’m surely not complaining about that.
The Noi in the driver’s seat nods courteously as I step inside.
I roll up my jacket sleeve to scan my QR code against the passenger door armrest.
“Greetings Mister Blue,” the Noi says, its electric eyes observing me through the rearview mirror interface. “Where to?”
“Automata Plexus,” I say. “Scenic route.”
“Just to let you know, the Scenic Route Protocol is an added ♡50/minute, and ETA is 25 minutes. Depends on traffic.”
“I accept,” I say. “Please. Call me Parker.”
“Copy,” the Noi says as it shifts gears to Drive and accelerates, weaving out of the parking zone and into the daily rush hour traffic. “What’s on your mind, Parker?”
“I’ve had my mind on a vacation,” I begin. “I’d like to see the Hills up close. Ever since the lockdown, the freeways to the Hills have been blocked off. Aurum Avenue is nowhere to be found. And Sunset Boulevard completely blipped off the map? It’s confusing.”
“I empathize with your confusion, Parker,” Noi says. “You’re one of those dreamers who has heard the siren song of Hollywood. You feel called to answer it. You feel called to be an icon for your people.”
“My people?”
“Pures,” Noi says. “Unless you’re — ”
“Cybernetically-enhanced,” I say. “Yes. I am.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“Is that a compliment?””
“Depends on who you ask,” he says. “From one bionic person to another, it’s best you don’t make a big deal of it. We are all equals in this society. But yes, it was a compliment.”
“In some ways, these enhancements have made me more human.”
“More human?” Noi repeats, pressing into the car horn as he merges into traffic. “Care to elaborate?”
“I feel more connected to myself. My emotions. My intuition.”
“Your intuition?” the Noi says. “Your gut or your heart?”
“Neither,” I say. “It’s from my subconscious. I don’t know if silicon-based people like yourself experience it. It’s a feeling that everything is unfolding exactly as it should. It’s numbers. It’s letters. Lining up. Making sense.”
“I see the world through algorithms and data,” Noi says. “One part of my brain is focused on getting you to your destination safely, while the other part of my brain is focused on conversing with you based on the Scenic Route Protocol, which, as a reminder, is one hundred percent confidential. I will retain zero memory of this conversation. And everything you say is end-to-end encrypted.”
“Well, my intuition is telling me things are unfolding as they should,” I say. “And that it’s time I bought myself a new car. Because it might be important down the road.”
“Hence your destination,” the Noi says. “I’m sure you’re just tired of being driven around by us Nois.”
“Only the ones that look and talk like you.”
“I see what you did there,” Noi says, feigning robotic laughter. “You could always go back to ridesharing apps for that human touch. You can bet Uber drivers come in far more diverse makes than us!”
“I’m looking for something more dependable,” I say. “I mean, I want to depend on myself. I want to be prepared with a set of wheels because reality is unpredictable and unstable. I want to feel in control, even if it’s only an illusion.”
“That computes,” Noi responds. “You want to feel free and in control of your fate even if you aren’t.”
“I want to hold the keys to my own destiny. If I’m going to go off the deep end, I want to be the one at the wheel.”
“That’s…” the Noi says, pausing, as if in thought, as the cab slows to a stop, before a red light. “Fascinating and concerning in equal measure.”
This bionic person, with its static face and programmed-to-be-literal speech, is trustworthy. Nobody scrutinizes its face to derive any additional meaning from its words.
It’s programmed to be as direct and truthful as possible.
That’s what makes the Scenic Route Protocol such a genius feature. They make excellent therapists. They’re non-judgmental and direct. They never make facial expressions.
They tell everything like it is.
No sugarcoating or plain white lies.
“The time for breakfast is now,” I say.
“Hmm…” the Noi says, checking his wristwatch. “It’s 11 in the morning, so I say your statement is accurate, assuming you’re not being sarcastic.”
“You’d be dysfunctional to believe otherwise.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Does that statement mean anything to you?”
“Being dysfunctional?”
“No, the one about breakfast.”
“Oh,” Noi says. “Is this a trick question?”
“Never mind.”
JERICHO BLUE
FIRST-GENERATION CITIZEN
The Noi eyes my ID and returns it to me. I place my ID card back into my wallet. I press my palm over my wrist and remove it after ten seconds, revealing my QR code tattoo.
Verified.
The Noi signals to the right and parks the taxi cab curbside. “You have arrived.”
> Cost: 1450 Love. Confirm?
> Confirm.
“Confirm,” I say. “Thank you.”
When I get inside, it’s just me and the clerk in the lobby.
He looks nondescript and very much human. Possibly part-bionic based on his irregular heat signatures.
“Hello,” the clerk says behind a black service desk with a luminous top surface, his mouth half occupied by a bite of a turkey sandwich. His skin is tan with slight creases and wrinkles in several areas of his cheeks and surrounding his mouth. His nose is slightly crooked, and so is his smile. This is a first-generation citizen. No doubt.
I blink twice in rapid succession to activate infrared vision.
I can’t see the lower half of his body and therefore can’t know for sure there are no hidden weapons on hand.
I shut my eyes tightly to restore my normal vision.
“I’d like a car,” I say.
Traces of stray conversation bleed through the porous walls — two men and one woman — actually, two women. I can’t make out exactly what they’re saying, but one of the guys has an ear-grating laugh that makes me want to tune out of the frequency entirely.
The clerk asks me several questions about the car’s design and aesthetics. Leather seats… All black exterior… Automatic transmission… One minute…
The car will be ready in one minute.
Several meters back, the sliding doors open. The clerk looks over my shoulder. A look of unease breaks his earnest expression. Footsteps sound behind me, rubber soles clacking against the marble floor.
Then a long, distorted and discordant sigh reminiscent of a Walkman radio tuned to a dead frequency.
Dark agent…
Behind you.
I activate infrared vision and look over my shoulder. The dark agent is standing just feet away, its glowing green eyes peering straight into mine. According to its heat signatures, it has two handguns, one holstered on either side of its body.
Relax.
He’s not here for you.
The clerk clears his throat.
“Identification?” the clerk says.
Switching back to normal vision, I pull the ID card out of my pocket, move closer to the service desk, and hand it to him.
The sound of the dark agent’s breathing is barely audible, but it’s loud enough to cause a stir. Exactly what I’m feeling, I’m not sure. It’s not fear. I know that.
I’ve become de-conditioned to fear and lost the ability to process it.
Could be a side-effect of the operation. A slight tweak in my neural circuitry. Damaged limbic system.
And if I ever do feel fear again, well, I’ll greet it like an old friend.
But until then…
The clerk looks at my ID card, and then he looks at my face, and then at my ID card, and then back at my face — and I’m sure now he’s verifying that my face matches the face on the card, and I’m now realizing I totally forgot to get a new photo taken — and he’s probably thinking I’m a fraud, and he’s onto me, and he’s gonna tell the dark agent that I’m not who I claim to be because I don’t look a thing like Jericho, and Kale was lying…
“All clear, Mr. Blue,” he says, returning my ID card. “A new vehicle!”
“A new destination,” I say, bowing. “I’m sure this car will transform my humdrum existence into a story worth telling.”
“You’re living the dream, sir,” the clerk says, in an approving tone. He gets it. “I wholeheartedly believe it, sir!”
I’m reminded of Kale for some reason. It’s the smile. Artificial. Performed.
An odd suction sound…
Pop.
The clerk reaches underneath the desk and pulls out a square piece of paper with a QR code printed on it, hands it to me. I hold it up to my face and blink three times in rapid succession.
The clerk reaches out his hand.
I place the paper back in his hand and he feeds it into a shredder.
He points to the red door on the right side of the lobby and tells me the door will open once the car is ready.
“Now that you’ve claimed ownership of the vehicle, you should be downloading a unique authentication key that will fuse with your genetic make-up — AKA your DNA! — that you can use every time you hit the ignition! Nobody can activate the ignition except for you, and nobody drives without you present.”
The clerk looks at the dark agent who now has his mask off.
The man is angry and gruff looking, with gray eyes and dark stubble. Possibly a first-gen, non-bionic heat signature. A Pure. A 100% organic, natural human.
“Hello Ace, sir,” the clerk says before shifting his attention to me.
“Jericho, take a seat.”
“Why not.”
Ace follows me with his eyes as I make my way to the couch. I nod at him, but he doesn’t nod back, just stares intently.
The clerk says, “I reckon you’re not here for a vehicle, my good sir.”
“No,” Ace says. “I need answers.”
I sit on the couch, lay back and pretend I’m watching the cartoon that’s playing on the hanging vidscreen suspended from the ceiling several meters above me.
“Have you supplied spare parts to anyone recently?”
The clerk is silent for a moment as if contemplating. “Yes. Why?”
“A couple of nights ago, the Green Zenith manufacturing plant in the Sub-City was raided and then set on fire. Seven employees were critically injured: six first-gens and one second-gen. Apparently, the group of perpetrators utilized spare car parts as combat weapons. Spare car parts.”
“How is that even possible?”
“One victim was slashed in the side with a turbine blade. One was assaulted with a steering wheel. And one skull fracture via car battery.”
“Holy fuck,” the clerk says, shaking his head, sounding distraught. He starts pacing around. “Goodness.”
“Would you like to hear about the bludgeoning with a car bumper?”
“No, thank you?”
“Well…”
“No deaths?”
“None.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Tons of Green Zenith inventory has gone missing,” Ace recounts. “It’s going to take months before the plant can resume a viable operation. So when Green Zenith stocks run out in the Sub-Marts, the perpetrators of this theft will be the only ones in Aurum City carrying supplies of the drug for months. Do you know what this means? This means a street gang has taken Green Zenith distribution into their own hands.”
“I — I had no idea they were gonna use the car parts for — for this. They said they were hobbyist mechanics!”
“So you are the supplier.”
The clerk lowers his head. “I supplied the parts.”
“Who did you supply them to?”
“He — he didn’t have a face.”
“What?”
“I mean, he wears a mask. Like you. A low poly mask. Like yours. But gold. He wore an orange jacket.”
“Name?”
“Brass… Monkey? He did identify himself as a dark agent, but his gold mask was very peculiar. Don’t see that every day!”
“Okay,” Ace says after a short pause. “Height?”
“5'9 to 5'10, from the looks of it.”
Ace pulls out his mobile device to type all this down. The red door opens. I stand up. The clerk looks over at me on my way out and says, “Have a nice day, Jericho.”
I walk through the door and say, “Please, call me Parker.”
Some seconds pass and, through the door, Ace shouts out, “Hey, Parker! Bet you’ll be doing a lot more driving than parking. You should be calling yourself Driver!”
I smile to myself as the door creaks to a close behind me.
My new car sits on a slightly elevated platform on a neon green track that leads into a neon green tunnel eventually leading back to the city.
The neon green lights of the track are reflected in the glossy finish of the car’s all- black exterior.
I hit the ‘unlock’ button on the remote. Then ’Start.’ Through the tinted windows, a blue glow emanates from the interior.
The car starts up.
As I make my way to the driver’s seat, I listen in on the last bits of the conversation.
“…the dark agent,” the clerk says. “Just before he left, he said something to me. He said, ‘The O-Tribe thanks you very much!’”
The dark agent…
The O-Tribe…
Then it hits me: a realization.
A revelation that catalyzes to completion a sustained neurochemical reaction that has been occurring within me, a cataclysmic schism of the self, of myself, in which the weaker half dies to feed the lifeforce of the other.
Then, rebirth.
Metaphorically.
Next stop, transcendence.
I feel as if I am no longer human.
The metamorphosis is complete.
It all hits at once.
Realizations on realizations.
One Eureka moment after another.
In rapid succession.
Like a deck of cards shuffling possible fates.
And slowly, the pieces start falling into place, coming together to form a complete picture in my mind’s eye, more intricate yet straightforward than anything I could’ve conjured myself in the past thousand or so days, trying to figure it all out myself.
I’m still wrapping my mind around it, but I can rest assured that everything is unfolding as it should.
Wake up, Agent Shiro…
There’s comfort in knowing my every experience is being recorded and stored, that one day the world will see whatever this is, my plight in Aurum City.
If there’s anyone left on Earth to tell stories to.
Wake up, Agent Shiro…
I am.
I am awake now.
Take the wheel.
Terra Incognita is the upcoming debut novel by Canadian writer Jonah Angeles.
The story centers around special agent Parker Shiro, who is tasked with the undercover investigation of Aurum City, an isolated “smart city” located in the Californian desert — blocked off from the world by four gold walls and an artificial sky.
When an extraction mission goes wrong, Parker must find his own way back to the outside world, all while navigating an uprising that threatens to swallow the city up whole.
〽️〽️〽️
Book I: A Tale of Two Synchronicities will be released serially, chapter-by-chapter on Medium, then a digital release on Amazon, Kobo, and Gumroad.
The novel’s soundtrack is available to stream on Spotify.
