The future ain't what it used to be

From the top of the pyramid Vix could look out across a great forest, with intensely green treetops surrounding him in every direction.
He was sitting on cold stone in the warm evening sun.
The air was dense and humid, and sounds of birds and stranger beasts lay atop the deep, humming sound from the Earth below.
Beneath him there were eight steps leading to the ninth – the one he was sitting on.
The top stone.
He felt calm and comfortable.
This had to be a dream.
It was.

It was Sunday again.
A chilly, late autumn Sunday, and Vix had once again travelled down to the Village.
He was happy he had taken up seeing Mr. Friend again on Sundays.
Every time spent in the Village made him look forward to next time, and the weeks in-between seemed to fly.
Mr. Friend was sitting in his usual chair, gesticulating with his right hand, as if chopping the air in a karate-like manner, or violently handshaking an invisible man.
Things had gotten rather hot already, as Vix had turned the conversation towards touching yet another subject where their personal views collided:
The one concerning the Future.
"There is only the moment, Victor. It’s the one thing that it is interesting to focus on. Always! Use your knowledge of the past to be the Master of the moment.”
“But everyone dreams of the future”, Vix said. “The future is where all the possibilities lie. It’s where dreams come true and change is possible.”
“Possibilities!? Look at what happened to all those who tried to escape the moment, Victor: the Futurists, all the science-fiction visionaries. They were all trying to escape into the future, and where did they end up?” Mr. Friend was fuming, and didn’t stop to wait for any answer from Vix; “I'll tell you where they ended up; they all ended up in the past! That's where you’ll find them now. No, I’ll give you some good advice: stick to the moment! Then you'll be on top of things."
Vix hastily took a sip of his coffee, sat it down again, and fired back:
"But the moment stinks! There's nothing for me in the moment. ‘The Now’ is far past its sell-by-date. Do you really think I’m so thick as to believe there is still a point in trying to stand up against all this shit surrounding me? Things seem pretty hopeless from the point where I'm sitting, all tied-up, chained to the present."
"Ok, yours is a particularly sorry case, so I'm almost tempted to agree. But the only hope is for the younger generations to open their eyes before they get too entwined in the messy frame of thought that is your inheritance. If you stick around in this mess for too long you’ll soon feel as if you’ve got too much to lose, which is of course just a silly self-deception, but it will make you end up just getting exhausted defending your own little piece of bad cake."
"So you, like a lot of old people who’ve had their share of fun, think it's the youth's responsibility to clean up the mess made by the generations who fucked up the whole scenery, emptied all the natural resources and left us with nothing but garbage?"
”Hah! Anger. Good stuff! It could well be the right road to take in order to find your way out of your ignorance.”
Vix found the old man particularly irritating today.
“Well it’s you who bring out the old punk in me.”, he said.
“Aren’t you a little too young to claim to be a ‘punk’?”
“Might well be. It still had an impact on me in retrospect. History you know.”
Mr. Friend didn’t listen. Instead he leaned back and smiled as he spoke:
“Ahh. Yes, the late seventies saw some pretty tough resistance awakening in the youth with all that punk rock and harsh political opposition spreading like a fire. And forgive me for saying this, but as much as I do believe this anger was a rightful manifestation of the intuitive feeling of injustice that young people felt at the time, with that sweet little slogan about the future… what was it, again?”
"No Future", Vix spat out.
“Yes! There you go. ‘No Future’. As I’m telling you. But as much as it summed up the whole situation at the time quite appropriately and was deeply and rightfully rooted in a will to change things, it all ended up as one of the greatest collective self-destruction cults the modern world has ever seen."
Vix couldn’t believe the nerve of the old bugger.
"So you're sitting here suggesting that Punk didn't amount to anything? I think you just might be able to get yourself a good beating if you dared to join me back into town and announce your views on this in public at the local pub. Especially to the people who had their lives severely touched, and maybe even completely changed by the whole movement of that day and age."
Mr. Friend laughed dryly.
"Yes. Yes. As a step on the ladder it might well be the best thing that ever happened at the time, but as evolution often shows that one extreme gets balanced out by the other in the next moment, I'm still not sure it can be viewed as a 'solution' to anything at all. And the destructiveness that backfired on the whole culture in the end just served the purpose of the very same authorities the whole movement sought out to oppose."
"In the end, maybe, whenever that might be. Hopefully we're not that close to it yet. I'm sure a lot of people got a hell of a lot out of your ‘self-destructing cult’.”
“And I’m sure you have a good example…” Mr. Friend folded his hands and leaned back in his chair. As always when he expected Vix to feel defeated.
“The DIY-thing, for one.”, Vix fired.
Mr. Friend gestured to hear more.
“The Do-it-yourself-thing.”, Vix repeated, and went on: “It seems like this ‘movement’ - if you insist on calling it that – inspired people to change a lot of the power-structures in music, fashion and various other aspects of youth culture back in the day. Of course this means a lot! It’s all about what and how you communicate with the world around you when you're at that age. And the way you think then will shape the way you think and act for the rest of your life.”
“Really?”, Mr. Friend put on an overly curious-looking face.
“Yeah. Really. It changed things.”
Vix felt very confident as he heard himself speak out to the old man.
There was a short pause. Then Mr. Friend said:
"Sure. But what if I pointed out that maybe someone saw this thing developing, someone quite smart, and that these smart someones made sure to exploit the whole movement and use it to their own advantage?”
“Like doing what?”
“Like dressing sheep in wolves' clothing, for a lack of better words. Or creating a kind of sub-cultural Trojan horse. You have to admit there's not that much left of DIY or anything with that spirit in today's pretty over-commercialised youth culture, only decades later?"
"Oh, that's the old ignorant fool speaking again. You don't think DIY had anything to do with things like electronic self-publishing and the whole open-source movement today?"
"Well, yes. Exactly. The open-source issue might actually be the best example here." Mr. Friend smiled smugly again.
"And how is that?"
"Well, I believe the initial idea was for people to be able to build open enterprise? Draw off eachothers resources, to create something without having to touch by corporate structures?"
"Something like that, yes."
“Free flow of information. Free sharing. Non-profit. Fancy slogans like that?”
“Spot on.”
"So what would happen if this thing gets off the ground, and becomes a bit threatening to the big corporations? Free enterprise can't be controlled and made profitable. A collision of intent is imminent. They would do what?"
"Try to stop it?"
"Now hear me here Victor, I'm not talking about the music industry alone. Unfortunately, as businesses go, it’s not known to be much of a MENSA stronghold. Their strategies of trying to strangle the public and close their eyes to new technology has done more to cement the aversion people have against them, than help them solve their profit problems? As desperate strategies go, theirs is like trying to minimize a balloon filled with water by squeezing it; you squeeze one end, and it expands in the other."
Vix wondered why Mr. Friend knew anything at all about the music industry.
"Guess you're right. At least they’ve helped us make music free."
Mr. Friend stared at him with his mouth half-open, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.
“Free?”
“Yes..”, Vix said. “Free.”
“You really think that’s what’s happening? That music is becoming ‘free’?”
“Ok, then. What would you suggest is happening?”
Vix’ confidence from a minute earlier had vanished.
“Do you know what one of the first things Mao Zedong made sure happened shortly after his ascent to power in the newly established People’s Republic of China?”
“No.”
“He made sure that they abandoned all copyright laws.”
“Why?”
“So that no artist opposing the authorities would be able to live off his or her art, or grow any bigger than totally irrelevant and non-influential outside of the system.”
“No shit?”
“Quite contrary: very shit! I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you need to be part of this world’s economy in order to be a part of the world at all. Without sufficient backing you won’t have the strength to get up each morning and continue creating your personal little revolution. Or am I wrong again?”
Vix twisted on his chair, and said: “So what’s next? Mao Tse-Tung is behind the hidden global capitalist regime, too? And he personally invented the MP3 codec to disarm all cultural opposition by making each and everyone a starving artist without the energy to fight the power?”
“Your words, not mine.”
“Aw, come on! So all attempts at making something free will just tighten the chains?” Vix laughed and shook his head slowly.
"Ok, let’s talk about another industry, then - an industry where they make enough money to attract more brainpower than the music industry can dream of.”
“What industry?”
“The one containing the people who actually have made music abundant and worthless; the information technology industry.”
“OK?”
“Let’s move on to the software equivalent; your ‘open source’ movement.” Mr. Friend twisted like a cat getting ready to jump at a unknowing bird. “So, we have the people in the IT industries seeing this new development happening outside their own corporate structures, a clear threat to everything associated with their patents, monopolies, methods of gaining multiple payments for products that can be copied millionfold without any extra production cost. But contrary to the music biz they handle it right."
"How?"
"Simply by joining in. That's what they do. They join in, and say 'look, now we're sharing too'."
"But that's cool. That’s why some big software corps get kudos from independent programmers."
"Cool indeed. For those big corporations it is more than cool."
"Why not for all involved?"
"Because, Victor, do you really think an independent visionary young programmer would have one chance in hell against the marketing muscle that these enormous corporations have? If someone comes up with anything genial you're going to see their contribution get rapidly swallowed up in the machinery of the nice, big brother, who suddenly have become so 'eager to share'. I'm afraid it's a question of a drop of piss on one side, and an endless ocean on the other, and I'm sorry to say it'll be down to the idealistic, gifted, DIY-inspired young chap or chapess to play the part of the urinal variety in this equation."
This was another one of those moments where Mr. Friend managed to make Vix feel somehow young and stupid. He hated those moments, and didn't particularly want to see the smug old cat's point in those situations, even when he felt he might have been right. It felt like Mr. Friend stole something from him, something that was supposed to be his own.
He snapped back and hoped to change the subject by changing his approach:
"Whatever! That whole punk thing came long before my time as you pointed out yourself. I wasn't part of it, I don't even know anyone personally that was part of it. Punk today and the legacy of that period of time is mostly just a retro fashion thing, sold in readymade packages by the high street stores. And that's just entertainment - and not something I'd expect you to be in much favour of?"
As Vix changed his arguments, Mr. Friend did, too:
"Maybe. But it might have served a purpose up to a certain point.”
“And I guess one has to admit it doesn't come out as extremely intelligent-looking in hindsight… swearing on TV, knocking eachother over on the dancefloor, spitting in eachother's faces while sporting 'challenging' hairstyles…"
“No, the word ‘intelligent’ doesn’t quite spring to mind.”
Vix paused to think, now that they had buried the hatchets for a moment, then he said:
"But sometimes throwing some shit at someone, setting fire to something or just yelling at everything must feel pretty good. I think. Not that I would know, I've never done it myself, except maybe in my dreams."
"Well, I guess that's something." Mr. Friend grinned.
"Don't make me feel even worse about myself. It's heavy enough to have to face the daily obstacles I face."
"Are you really sure about that? I mean, are you sure it's not within yourself to define whether what you face is an obstacle or not?"
"Were you sent by the Scientologists, after all? Or some other sick band of opportunists? That kind of talk reminds me of those silly books by smiling authors with soft-filtered portraits on the back cover beneath quotes like 'this book changed the way I manage my life's resources' or 'I used to be a victim, and look at me now'."
"I love this skepticism, Victor. You really know how to make an old man happy, I must say. But then you knew that, didn't you?"
"Oh, get outta here. First you start by trying to convince me that fighting the power is a good idea by discrediting Punk, then you tell me to 'work on my attitude' like any other old fart. Next thing you'll tell me the second summer of love '88 and Acid House was the work of the C.I.A. or something?"
"Certainly not!”
Mr. Friend looked out the window.
Then he continued: “The Americans had nothing to do with that."
"Thanks."
"No, no, no. I believe there was mainly British intelligence involved in that one."
Vix let out a big sigh, then he stretched out on his chair, folded his hands on top of his head, and quickly let them down again.
"Oh, purr-LEASE! Come on." Vix was laughing out loud now.
Heads were turning inside the coffee-shop.
Mr. Friend looked at him in what he decided was an attempt on the ‘innocent-suggestion’-look.
"But surely you didn't expect that the fact that more than half of England's below 25's suddenly were raving around in fields in the middle of the night with their head stuffed with psychedelics would go unnoticed, did you?"
"But for God’s sake! You're trying to make me believe that British Intelligence invented it. You're such a fucking ace comedian. THAT’s what you are. That’s where you come from. You’re a retired comedian. It all makes sense now."
Mr. Friend ignored him.
"Victor! You see, we... they - those who'd like to be in control. Their kind never really invent stuff, not at all. It's a matter of being aware of what's inventing itself, then getting in the right position, and then finally make sure that it doesn't get out of control. Losing control, that's what it's all about. Not losing it. I mean."
Vix noticed that Mr. Friend seemed more than a little beside himself today. He also noticed the slight slip of the tongue, and the lack of the usual elegance in his desperate attempt at quickly getting back into style after the glitch. He was unsure about whether to arrest him on it there and then, but decided to let it lie and rather move on with the conversation. Even just to make things a little more interesting.
Mr. Friend continued: "You have to understand that what happened at the end of the eighties was something that had to be brought under some kind of control. Simple as that! Here you were facing a situation where the youth of the nation suddenly started creating new social bonds all on their own. Meeting in fields and unlicensed warehouses, engaging in ritualistic dance, accumulating real human power. And all this outside of the System - outside of where this kind of power was supposed to be. Recipe for disaster, if you ask me."
"And I do ask."
"Well, of course this couldn't be accepted. Luckily past experience of handling similar matters both at the end of the sixties - when things went completely out of control for every party involved - and in, as we just talked about, the end of the seventies - where the self-destruction of the uproar cleaned up its own mess almost by itself. This past experience meant that this time a different solution was to be applied."
”And this is where you go on and tell me that the authorities were the real entrepreneurs behind the whole Acid House movement? Get outta here!”
"No. I’m not going to tell you that. Not at all. Not in the beginning, anyway... But you must understand that eventually measures had to be taken. This thing couldn't be left to grow out of proportion all by itself."
Vix looked lazily disapproving at Mr. Friend.
Then he said:
"Like it had to be aided out of proportion by some external force? How about just giving young people some cred for once for pulling a new culture off by their own force?"
Mr. Friend almost whined in a near wimpish manner, as he continued:
"Sure! At first I don't doubt one minute that this was something that came straight from the untamed creativity of young, restless, bored souls. But very quickly some tags had to be put on all these sudden new activities for the collective understanding to hang on to. And these would preferably be quite negative tags. Why do you think that was?"
"Dunno. Cause all people ever see is negativity? In everything."
"People see what they're being shown. With the situation of the national tabloids getting access to the 'crime-scene' before anyone else, we were all soon dealing with yet another irresponsible, carefree and ’hedonistic’ youth culture, obsessed with sex and drugs. Didn't you ever wonder why the British tabloids were the ones who insisted on that if you were to be attending this new craze you had to take all the new designer drugs?”
"Oh, come on. As if there weren't enough drugs there to start with. I've heard all the stories from the first and now 'legendary' parties, and we're not exactly talking Pimms and cigars either."
"Yes. Yes. But that's not my point."
"What exactly is your point, then?" Vix was starting to get bored, and doubted he would be able to follow Mr. Friend for much longer.
Yet he thought the old man had to be given the chance to explain what exactly his point was:
"That as soon as this newfound energy of youth started showing some real muscles, the only sensible thing to do was to sprinkle some gasoline on the nice, warming little bonfire."
"Why? To make it even stronger?"
"That, and to emphasize the aspects of this new 'movement' that could be perceived as negative or threatening to the public eye, and at the same time make it look attractive to the forces in society that would ensure its destruction, and therefore, destroy the chances of it making any real change"
"And who might these forces be?"
"Greedy drug dealers, gangster cartels and powers of hyper-commerce and a plain superficial set of values. All sure to make the scene implode on itself."
"You've almost started sounding like me now."
"Maybe we're not so different, then?"
"I beg to differ."
"Whatever you say. But the fact is that while the majority of young people lose themselves to computer games, repetitive music and pill-popping, others were free to go on with the restructuring of the world.”
"So you're basically saying the entire nineties can be written off as a decade of escapism blindfolding the youth while the whole world were being mislead once again? I think you might be well out of touch with the workings of young minds for once . Of course you took a pill when going to a rave. That was half the fun. And anyway it was part of rebelling against it all, not following the squareness of the herd. It was about dropping out, man.”
”With the capitalist-owned pharmaceutical industry acting as pusher, and the tabloid press acting as advertising companies? My guess is you’ve been thoroughly screwed in your youthful naivety, my friend.”
"Ah come on! This time you're too far out on a limb. And Pac Man was the Devil in disguise leading our souls further into damnation? Hah!"
"Think of this: It’s basically the same group of people who are the major shareholders in the arms industry, the oil industry, in Hollywood's entertainment business and in the computer gaming industry. And they have only one thing in common; they’re controlling the whole business of murder and human suffering and are making unimaginable amounts of money from it. The arms industry is still bigger than the whole oil industry in terms of yearly turnover, and anyway they're so closely linked together that you'd be very clever to separate the flow of money and power in and between them." Mr. Friend said. Sounding like Vix.
"And here you are directing all your fury towards the poor entertainment industry? If it's the same people putting money into leisure, at least that balances out some of the bad things they do with their money elsewhere. Don't you think?" Vix said, sounding like Mr. Friend.
"Did you ever ask yourself why most computer games are based on war and killing?"
"To enable young people to let of some steam, maybe?"
"Maybe, but if people were more balanced and fulfilled in their lives they wouldn't feel the need to slaughter imaginary members of their own species, would they?"
"I guess not. Never thought of it like that."
"Haven't you ever questioned why most young people are so interested in violence and warfare? That it might not be, as some might insist "part of their nature". Most frustrations in kids don't turn up until they're old enough to start understanding that the world they grow into is somehow off its hinges, and that's when they're presented with their first toy gun, or their first computer wargame. Make monsters, and give them something to kill with."
"You sound a bit like a whinging old woman, but fair enough. You say this too is all part of the same game?"
"Of course it is."
"And you tell me it's all willfully set up. Ruthlessly constructed, like a concentration camp in Germany under the Nazis?"
"Like a concentration camp in Siberia under Stalin, like a Japanese concentration camp in Manchuria, or a more modern one in Abu Grahib or Guantanamo Bay under God knows who. A thinking soul can get a really hard time trying to imagine what a man-made system is capable of doing to members of its own species, especially once it turns into a ’legal entity’ or any kind of soulless and 'formalized' gathering of men. People are cowards, but as soon as they're part of forming a whole that is larger and more powerful than any of its single building-blocks, they'll do almost anything and hope to get away with it.”
”The gathering of a human herd?”
”Not really. A human herd is still just a gathering of humans, and will continue to act as that; a quite unpredictable flock of humans. I’m talking about the monster that is created when every single soul accepts that one frame of thought, or a set of rules, that is allowed to overshadow anything on their personal level; from their human conscience via their ’common sense’ to their whole worldview.”
”Like a religion?”
”Like a religion. Or a political system. Or a commercial system with all of its ridiculous laws. Any kind of system that removes all traces of humane judgment, or allows for someone to hide behind a set of external rules. A hive is a perfect way for bees to organise themselves, but we are born totally different creatures with totally different skills. We're born to think for ourselves, act for ourselves, and judge by our own judgment. Together.”
”And not hide behind things such as communism or fascism?”
”Any –ism. Any external idea that is being accepted as an authority to what you deep within feel and know is ’the right thing’ – usually a thing that varies greatly from situation to situation in life, and that requires that you are in touch with yourself – something most people seem to be far from.”
”You think people would act otherwise if they were in touch with themselves? I've seen people who, if they were to get more in touch with themselves as they are already, would be even bigger walking disasters than they are now."
"You've got to give and take, Victor. Give some slack, as you like to put it yourself."
"Yeah, but seriously. Don't you think humankind need some kind of guidance when you see the messy state of people running things by themselves?"
"Sure. Just show me one example of people running things by themselves in modern society, and I'll judge from that."
“Victor.”, Mr. Friend said abruptly.
“Yes?”
“What exactly is it you want?”
“Want?”
“Yes. What do you want?”
Vix felt as if someone had poured a kilogram of flour into his mouth, and that his whole being went bloodless and dry.
“I…” he stuttered.
“Yes, you.”
“I want… JUSTICE!”
“Aha. Justice.”
Vix nodded frantically.
“What kind of justice?”
“Wh…”
“Justice as in equality for all in every aspect of life, here and now? Justice as in you’re a bastard in this life and get reincarnated as a rat in the next? By what measurement do you want justice?”
“I…”
Vix gave up, and let the conversation rest from there on.

Back at the Shelter, he stumbled across a new website.
It was called peacerael.org and had been started up by people from both sides of the Israel/Palestine tragedy, who were living in the troubled areas.
It was a kind of online forum, but instead of the usual fiery discussion boards, this one only allowed for people to post their poems.
This way, common people who were touched by the insane conflict had an opportunity to express their anger, sorrow and frustration without having to defend or argue for or against anything; it was just a place to express your personal feelings for the world to see.
There was pain, of course. Much pain. But those who posted here had in common that they just wanted to show what was actually happening on a human level, and by doing so hoped to build some kind of bridges directly between people, and not through any kind of system of politics or belief.
This evening a young mother from Ramallah had posted her words, and for some strange reason Vix felt that she hit him somewhere within his aching soul where he usually didn't feel any kind of response whatsoever.
It could have been guilt, but guilt caused by his own blindness, he concluded, and not just the usual guilt he struggled with everyday, the one that came from an old teacher, his parents, or the simple fact that he never amounted or aspired to anything in life.
Her poem read:

WHILE YOU DANCED

While you danced

My life was shattered

Blood was shed

While the music played

I lost my only child

And faith in God

He noted down the events of the day, and backed up his main drive.
That night, Vix could feel the full weight of the world on his shoulders as he went to sleep.

I, Satan

I am Satan.
The one who fell to Earth.
I used to be beautiful.
I used to be free.
But everything was taken from me.
Even though I did nothing wrong.
I am the one who envies.
Because what’s rightfully mine has been stolen from me.
I am the one who hurts.
Because I myself have been hurt beyond your wildest, most perverted dreams.
I am the one who is justified in my spitefulness - as so much loss has been put upon my shoulders.
Why should I feel empathy when I see others suffer?
Have I not suffered more?
Why should I forgive, forget?
When I’ve done nothing to deserve this fate?
I have done nothing wrong.
Nothing!
I am Satan.
The one who speaks now.
But I am also the one who listens now.
Don’t you know me?
Can’t you feel me - deep beneath the surface?
Have I not seen through your eyes?
Harmed with your hands?
Hated from inside your heart?
Am I not from within?

And the guilty shall hang

"What I mean is that if all this power really is in the hands of just a few stinking-rich, power-hungry, unscrupulous bastards who don't give a toss about anything but their own little fucked-up ‘elite’ of likeminded arseholes, then it doesn't really look very good for the rest of us, does it?"
Vix was almost shouting, and could see heads turning inside the coffee-shop. He lowered his voice a little, leaned over and looked Mr. Friend straight in the eye with the most intense look he could manage, and said: ”They know what they’re doing, don't they?”
Mr. Friend slowly sipped his coffee, and then replied calmly:
”Well, of course they do. What did you expect?”
Mr. Friend was sitting at the usual window table at the coffee-shop when Vix had arrived.
Vix realised that it must have been several months since they last met, but when he walked over to the table to make his presence known, Mr. Friend had simply glanced up from his paper and said: “What? You’re not having any coffee?”, whereby Vix cancelled his line of ‘hello, long time’ and walked over to the counter to order.
As he returned with the coffee in hand, Mr. Friend had looked up at him briefly, and said: “Quite chilly draft in the air. Bit early, don’t you think?”, and just continued to read.
It didn't take long before they were getting to the point of dismantling the workings of the world, and they were now deep into a heated discussion on one of their favourite topics:
”But if it's all true, then the game has already been lost by anyone who would wish to oppose these fuckers,” Vix said in an almost desperate tone.
”It could well be so, but remember one thing; if you play a game of poker, you don’t win by having the best cards on your hands."
"No?" Vix shrieked.
"No. You win by convincing your opponent that you have the best hand. This is the true tactics of every ’closed’ scenario - it can’t withstand the exposure of daylight.”
"Are you insinuating that 'they' don't have any real power?"
"Of course they have real power. They have all the power you and everybody else on this planet have given them. And all the power that most breathing men and women throughout history have sacrificed to them by believing in their lies," Mr. Friend stated matter-of-factly.
"Oh yeah? You're blaming the victims for making this mess now?"
Mr. Friend narrowed his eyes at Vix, resembling some kind of pointy-faced bird: "If you choose to let yourself be controlled, it's your choice, your responsibility. And your own mess to clean up."
"That's quite stale, if you ask me," Vix replied.
"So is Nature."
He had to think for a second. Things were being said that collided heavily with his whole view of the world, or at least the view of the world he’d always wanted to have, but still he found it very hard to argue against the logic of what Mr. Friend said.
But his emotions were working in overdrive to try and find a way to oppose the old man’s sickening confidence in his own insight.
"Listen! How the hell can people even know about this? They don’t know that they’re being controlled. Therefore, it leaves them no choice. The authorities of all nations are all keeping the lid tightly screwed-on as always, and trying to oppose anything in a more active way either gets you locked up in jail, or will get you parked in the fringes of society – stowed away like a freak at a sideshow - way outside the whole system. And that just leaves you free to be poor and have no influence whatsoever."
"Now that's a thinking man speaking! More of this, please." Mr. Friend smiled and gestured as to give Vix a round of applause, to yet another large portion of irritation.
But Vix swallowed and continued: "Without any political, spiritual or financial influence, you are by society's standards a nobody, and nobodies don't change the world. Or am I wrong?"
"No, you're not wrong, Victor.” Mr. Friend looked him straight in the eye. “You are, in fact, very right.”
Vix felt confused, and somehow empty, now suddenly being right.
Mr. Friend continued:
“’Illuminated’ outcasts have never really stood a chance at saving either humanity or the planet, have they? More often than not they haven’t even been able to save themselves - no names mentioned, no offence taken.”
“So, no Saviours, then.”
“I strongly doubt it. For anything to change in this world on any scale of significance, it seems to require vast collective efforts. Only when new ideas start to move the masses do such ideas become important, and only then do they have any lasting effect.”
“But that leaves us truly fucked in all orifices. The masses have long since proved that as long as they’ve got their trash televisions and their bellies stuffed with cheap beer and drive-by junk food the last thing they need is new ideas for the world.”
“Ah, the language!” Mr. Friend pretended to be offended.
“But seriously. It’s a lost game, this one. People are so immersed in their cultural prisons that even though they were about to recognize and act on the notion they have deep inside, that everything is simply wrong, and start searching for a way out, they will have nowhere to turn. It’s no point changing your mental diet if the whole forest is poisoned.”
Vix felt defeated by his own arguments.
Mr. Friend quietly scratched his moustache as he sat looking very calmly at Vix. His eyes had lost some of their usual darting quality and had some kind of unfamiliar warmth in them.
Almost a kind of softness.
“But you have forgotten one aspect, Victor,” he finally said, after a sip of the now lukewarm coffee. “It’s something we’ve discussed many times before. A place where all information - ‘secret’ or not - can be found for anyone who bothers to take a closer look."
"What? The Internet is gonna save the world now?"
“No, no, no. Not your beloved Internet. As such,” Mr. Friend shook his head. "History!” Mr. Friend shouted, in a hissing, whispery voice, like in a movie containing at least one dwarf. “History is the key! Knowledge of history is the real power.”
He tapped the table with his now rolled-up newspaper as he said this, as if to make Vix feel that these words were of the greatest importance possible.
“But I take it most people think that money is the real power,” Vix suggested.
“I’ve hinted quite strongly that the power gained from controlling history by far transcends that of controlling money. But also knowing your history will get you much further than the worldly riches any person without the right heritage can ever expect to accumulate. That said, most people can't resist a bribe the moment the size of the bribe size exceeds their personal threshold - usually situated somewhere just above mid-way between their moral and their greed – so it’s a tough one, I agree. But it’s a way out.”
Vix didn’t consider Mr. Friend’s solution a genial one, but decided to follow the line of thought for a bit.
"So you mean that if people knew their history, they would have a chance at withstanding the power of the world’s false authorities?"
"Yes I do! If people knew the real story, and had some light shed on what's been going on throughout the years, they would probably understand that there really wasn't much to fear to begin with, and would ask more questions instead of following the whims of charlatans."
"We should all just turn on the lights, you mean?"
”Exactly! That’s when you’ll realise that the monster growling beneath your bed at night really is just a mouse with a megaphone.”
This made Vix smile, and gave him a slight feeling of relief.
He sipped his coffee.
”So that’s the whole game, then? Distracting people from the real knowledge that lies within history. I guess it’s simply a question of hiding a couple of fruitful trees in the forest?”
”Absolutely,” Mr. Friend looked content.
“But in a way it’s still quite similar to the hiding of spiritual knowledge in the darkness of occultism, only this time there’s nothing being covered up, it’s just a foggy mass of information if you don’t know what to look for,” Vix suggested, knowing that this would trigger Mr. Friend on the subject of people’s spiritual health once more.
“Quite so, Victor. If you want to take away people’s spirituality you have to make sure to hide it very well and make it look threatening enough to scare them away from trying to get it back. It's amazing what torturing, hanging or burning a few thousand mothers, sisters and daughters on stakes can do to an onlooker. Especially to a child. I guess seeing someone you love burn to death in front of your very eyes has an immense impact on your future willingness to dwell in "witchery" yourself. And you might not be so keen on advising your own children to touch on the subject either when the time comes for you to raise kids of your own."
“An overly effective cure for eradicating all future generations' spiritual heritage, in other words."
Mr. Friend seemed too happy with the lack of resistance in the conversation, but Vix decided to let him go on undisturbed:
”But it’s not just in the area of people's spiritual health these muddling techniques are at work. The same mechanism lies behind all the secrecy of military and government 'intelligence' matters, or even in so called 'National Security'. Make it seem dangerous enough to oppose the System, and soon you'll have people eating any lie you give them, in fear of the punishment they would face by seeking the truth."
”But then there really is a big, global conspiracy going on. Like the really crazy people discuss on the Internet; in which those who seem to be fighting the big wars on opposite sides are secretly meeting in darkened rooms, comparing notes and making decisions to make each other even more wealthy through arms sales and other forms of war-profiteering. You mean I shouldn’t trust the ’official’ version of anything at all, refuse vaccinations and watch out for reptilian-looking politicians?”
Mr. Friend laughed.
”All of your paranoid fears are probably quite true – if you want them to be. But let's put this a bit differently: There’s nothing in this so-called civilization of ours that hasn’t been planned by human minds in one way or other. From roads to commercial campaigns to the price of sugar to the distribution system of ’illegal’ drugs to the banking pyramid to...”
”What’s the banking pyramid?”
”The world's financial system. But you'll soon understand this." Mr. Friend went on: "So. From the banking pyramid to the voting system of Florida to the road systems of the world – well probably not the road system of London Town, but you get my point.”
”But, Banking Py...”
”All of these things can be perceived as conspiracies as long as you’re not aware of the fact that they’re simply the results of the human will at work to begin with, but instead realize it slowly over time.”
”What? That we’re being tricked all the time without realizing, but that some have started seeing the truth? Sounds a bit too close to 'The Matrix'.”
”No. I mean that most are being ignorant and lazy most of the time. There really are not that many areas in which anyone cares to cover up their underlying motives anymore. They just trust this human laziness and the fact that people won’t use their brains unless they absolutely have to.”
”Yeah, right. For example?”
”Shopping mall psychologists.”
”What, shrinks who have their offices located inside shopping malls? Big deal. I’d go crazy myself by spending a whole day in such a place.”
”No, I’m talking about psychologists hired to assist architects behind designing shopping malls, and who later assist the stores to arrange their stock in such a manner that their customers react in a certain pattern and consume more goods. And obviously far more than they actually need in life.”
”Aha. Come to think of it, I think I saw a documentary on a bloke whose job was something along these lines on Discovery Channel once. He made sure the colour of the carpet on the floor inside the store didn’t differ from the one in the corridor outside, as people unconsciously would perceive it as a psychological barrier, which prevented them from walking into the store. And that men's clothes weren’t hung on tall racks, as women often do the shopping for their men and are statistically shorter.”
”Now did you? And what did you do about it? Did you rush out into the streets and scream ’conspiracy!’, standing outside your local mall in the rain with a megaphone, handing out leaflets, warning every poor soul who passed through the doors? Or did you set up your own internet site to end this evil conspiring shopping empire?”
”Well, no. I considered blowing myself up at the premises of the newsagent down the road, but then I strongly doubted that old Ali had the turnover to employ such conspiring services and decided to let it rest.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“Well, he does keep his fags just in head-height behind the counter, though. Makes it really hard not to pick up a packet as you pay…”
”Hmm. You’re a wise little snot, aren’t you?” Mr. Friend all too-transparently enjoyed the direction this discussion was taking again.
Vix didn’t let the opportunity lie.
”Ok. So modern shopping malls are cunningly designed so that people are being manipulated further into consumerism, which in turn holds up the unjust trade-balance of the world, so that the capital powers further cement their position. I see that. But what are you getting at?” he said in a slow, stoned voice that he thought would have suited such a statement.
Mr. Friend fired back:
”I’m simply pointing out that before you start screaming about a global conspiracy of enormous dimensions and want to reveal to the world who’s really behind the 9/11 attacks, or who actually killed JFK, or question why the privately-owned central bank of the United States can call itself the ’Federal’ Reserve bank and continue inventing more money at will - you should simply try and do something about the matters that actually are within your own reach. Otherwise you’ll end up feeling like total failure, as you’ll be engaging your mind in something the body instinctively knows it can do nothing about.”
”Ahh. Great solution. To stay passive on every level of resistance towards the corrupted System. Now, that’s the way to go.”
”No, no, no. Take action against manipulation, for goodness sake. But do it on your own level. Then you might be more successful. And if you’re really serious about wanting to do something about the big stuff; sell your car and start walking, or get a bike. Then you won’t need any oil at least in your own life.”
”I don’t have a car”
”See. You’re already saving the world!”
Vix had to take a deep breath, but continued talking as he did:
”Anyway I believe most people don’t have any confidence left in ’small protests’.”
His lungs were all empty when he reached “-tests”, and he couldn’t fit another word.
Mr. Friend grabbed the opportunity:
”Of course you don’t. That’s how it should be. Otherwise the whole thing wouldn’t have worked. As I have tried to explain to you on more than one occasion, the system of global hypnosis functions in a most excellent way. I take great pride in being involved in its architecture.”
”You do?”
Vix had planned to hit back, offended as he was to have been included in ‘most people’, but was surprised at Mr. Friend’s sudden revelation.
”Well, of course. I would have hated to think that I’d spent the large part of my life wasting my time,” Mr. Friend said, then went silent.
Vix looked out the window for a while. He took a sip of his coffee, and also said nothing for a while.
Then he said:
”But why would you tell me all this if you’re happy about how things work?”
”I didn’t say I was happy with the way things work. I said I was proud of the work I put into it. That’s two quite different things, I believe.”
”Yeah, but you seem mostly unaffected by the horrors of this world – horrors that you now claim to be partly responsible for.”
Mr. Friend firmly put his cup down on the table with a sharp noise. His eyes glinted with something Vix decided was a tiny fraction of a lost temper.
”Let me put this straight, Victor. None of the inner mechanisms that lead the people of this planet to act as they do are particularly ’innocent’ in nature. Being a so-called ‘victim of circumstance’ is nothing but a chosen condition. It requires that you refuse to take responsibility for your own actions, and – listen to what I’m telling you here – to actually make the decision to abandon your natural responsibilities takes a lot of conscious willpower.”
Whatever he was on about seemed very important to Mr. Friend.
Almost personal.
Vix chose to shut up and let him go on:
“You can spend most of your early grown-up life working hard on escaping your natural childhood sensibilities, especially in the field of your sense of responsibility and consequences from the use of your free willpower. Eventually you can manage to escape yourself through deceiving yourself, and the reason people are willing to do so is that they can finally get a personal excuse to act as a victim - and never really have to face any consequences of their own choices, as they are not really ‘their own’ anymore.”
Vix had enough of the monologue at this point.
”So you’re telling me that humans who suffer do so out of their own choice? That’s a truckload of crap if you ask me.”
”Of course people don’t choose to suffer – on a conscious level. People are far too greedy by nature to choose things that aren’t good for themselves. They are simply suffering because they have made the wrong choice of trying to escape the consequence of free will, and deep down they instinctively know that the mess they’re in is their own doing.”
”Yeah, right …”
Was all Vix managed to say, as it made his thoughts wander.
Mr. Friend didn’t stop:
”There is one widespread popular myth when it comes to hypnosis; the one that you can’t hypnotise someone who doesn’t want to become hypnotised.”
”And that’s also just a lie, of course?”
”No. That’s the truth. Very much the truth.”
”So you say that all these people sleepwalking the planet, letting themselves be screwed-over by the power-hungry, harassed by the unjust money-system, and caught up in the modern slavery that is consumerism. You’re saying that they chose to do so by their own free will? Humbug!”
”The free will is a scary tool, my friend. Using it means that all your choices can be blamed on yourself, and no-one else. No parent, no God, no ‘System’, and certainly no politician. How many people in your neighbourhood would you guess would be willing to give up all these excuses for their own misery?”
”Well, putting it like that...”
”Have you never wondered why children who are in the process of becoming teenagers almost always end up in constant conflict with their parents?”
”I wouldn’t know. I left.”
”And maybe that was the right choice. It certainly might seem so from where I’m sitting, watching the result.”
”Get to the point, please,” Vix snapped. He could feel the usual unpleasant feelings rise as they touched in on the subject of his own family background.
”Every human being who enters into adolescence from childhood, instinctively experience a phase of their decision-making skills and sense of responsibility awakening inside. From the careless life of childhood - if you should be so lucky to be allowed one in your early years - you suddenly feel that you have to face yourself and start testing these new abilities of yours.”
”And if you don’t?”
”Don’t what? Face them?”
”I mean, what if you haven’t had a playful childhood to look back at?”
”Unfortunately, you are at the mercy of your parents’ ability to make the right choices for you until you develop these skills yourself. That’s probably the worst consequence of letting people choose to become parents without first having reached a certain personal maturity to make important choices for themselves. Which has very little to do with their age. Just a most unlucky side-effect of the combination of free will and the mammalian reproductive system.”
”It probably would’ve worked better to combine free will with automitosis?”
”Probably. Why weren’t you working on the team of Mother Nature’s original architects when this whole thing was designed?”
”The pay was too shitty.”
”Right. But back to the inner workings of a troubled teen.”
”You realise you’ll win the Nobel price if you manage to come up with an explanation of this?”
”I wouldn’t need one, but thank you very much in advance. How about I’ll give you one if you stop interrupting me?”
”As you’re really on a roll today: shoot.”
”As you begin trying-out your skills of decision-making and responsibility, you also start realising that most of the people surrounding you - people that you have trusted all your life - don’t use them at all, or at least to a very small extent. That’s usually when you discover your first ’conspiracy’.”
”And then they just keep coming?”
”If you choose to look at such revelations that way, yes. If you on the other hand just shake them off, and continue the process of developing your skills the way you should, you’re most likely to find yourself in a lot of trouble.”
”Tell me about it.”
”That’s what I’m doing.”
”And that’s probably why I’m still listening...”
”Firstly, you are committing the crime of reminding the ’superiors’ around you that they’ve chosen not to use their skills, and that is considered treason of the highest degree. The whole illusion is dependent upon everyone participating in the drama. The first repercussions are therefore most likely to be attempts from your surroundings to make you feel guilty for stepping out of the ’victim’ pattern.”
”And that certainly works.”
”Yes, it is a simple form of suggestion, and it works. But as the guilt starts building inside you - at the same time your feelings tell you that it’s not real guilt, but guilt imposed by others. And as you know deep within that you’ve done nothing wrong, you end up in a conflict inside yourself between the ’real’ feelings of the right to exercise your birthright, and the ’fake’ guilt invoked by those who want to stop you from doing so. You can then choose to get very angry, and take that anger out on your surroundings, or you can turn it inwards and start blaming yourself and get very self-destructive and depressed about your own situation. Either way, that’s usually when the real trouble starts.”
”Not bad.”
”If you can stand having all the people you looked up to and loved throughout your whole childhood being angry with you for a prolonged period of time, you can persist and get out on the other side a stronger and perfectly healthy person. If you don’t, you’re most likely to give in and just accept things ’the way they are’, and carry the whole scenario on to the next generation.”
Vix paused to try and take some of this in, the conversation had suddenly started getting personal for him, too.
After a short break, he said:
”Put this way, it could be far worse having people you love around you as you grow up than not having any. Then at least you don’t have that many to feel guilty about.”
He could feel a sting inside.
Mr. Friend looked as if he sensed the change of mood, and continued with a lowered voice:
”If the disappointment of not being given your rightful share of love and support in your early years doesn’t overshadow the sense of freedom attained by not having lots of unhealthy relations, then the answer is yes. That might be why orphans who make it through to adulthood without losing track are usually set for great things.”
Vix smiled, and said:
”Makes you wonder. Sometimes I don’t know what might be the worst, nuclear war or the nuclear family.”
Mr. Friend laughed aloud with his short, combusting laughter. He patted Vix lightly two times at the tip of his shoulder with the palm of his hand.
”That’s why I put my faith in you, Victor,” he said, and then he leaned back in his chair and stared into the distance out through the café window.
Vix could see the distance in Mr. Friend’s eyes growing, and said nothing.
They just sat like that for a while, and soon Vix reckoned it was time to make a move before the evening crept in and left him with the night bus from the station as the only option to get back to The Shelter.
He said goodbye to Mr. Friend, who smiled back in an unfamiliar fashion. He almost seemed vulnerable as he sat there watching the afternoon slowly giving in to the creeping evening darkness.
Vix thought to himself that Mr. Friend was a great man, and that after all, he was genuinely very happy to know him.
Then he left.

The driver on the bus back from the station kept his little FM radio as loud as practically possible, for the convenience or despair of his tired late-night passengers.
The metal-sounding, tinny voices went on overdrive about the great crisis that had hit the world’s financial system.
Vix couldn't escape the repeated disinformation, and soon found himself getting severely wound-up over the whole thing.
When would people learn?
He spent the entire journey fuming and raging, and knew he had to do something about it.

Back at The Shelter, he stormed in, put on the kettle, and sat down by the computer.
He hesitated to log into the blog. Something felt not quite right about it. Like having a little rant wouldn’t be enough on a night like this.
After a day like this.
Vix had never thought he would go to this step, but something inside him almost made him want to reach out to the world.
It could even be that he felt just a tad invincible this evening.
He knew he had to do something outrageous – something daring.
He almost closed his eyes as he typed the home URL to Facebook, as if his mind was looking the other way from what his hands were doing.
He quickly hit the 'sign up'-button, and filled in his email address, a ‘weak’ password, and – much to his own surprise - his full name.
His own, real name.
As if afraid of suddenly changing his mind, he checked and answered the confirmation email at record speed, and after another mouseclick, Vix had an account at one of the world's largest social networks.
He skipped filling in any more info about himself, except 'religious views' and 'relationship status', and then he created an open group, naming it 'Save the rich'.
He quickly wrote from the top of his head:

People!
We have a crisis spreading like wildfire across the planet these days.
This time, we're not talking a mere 'minor accident', like a trillion billion people dying of hunger in Africa, or thousands losing their lives in the flooding of Bangladesh, or even thousands more being slaughtered in Darfur with weapons produced and sold from our own country, while we all look the other way.
No, this time REAL disaster has struck.
You see, those of us, those very few of us, who can afford to play the big money games; the stock market, the moving around of imaginary money for the gain of real profit, have been so unlucky to have gone and overspent their cash.
Of course, it's not really their cash in the first place, but a loss is a loss, and we are now in danger of having people who matter lose their silver-lined jobs.
In other words, salaries in the hundredfold of what a simple hard-working cleaning assistant or bus driver can expect in a lifetime are threatened.
If this cancer isn't stopped, it can all end with the financial system of the world collapsing, and what then? We might face the horror of creating a new, more fair system of sharing our assets on a global level. The terror!
WE MIGHT EVEN END UP HAVING TO CONSUME LESS!
So, to stop this frightening scenario, join us in our new campaign:
I appeal to you, people of the Earth; bend down once again and let your aching backs carry the richer man, so he won't fall and get dirt on his suit, or lose the champagne glass he's carefully balancing in his hand.
Join our slogan with your voices raised to the full:

SAVE THE RICH!

LET'S UPHOLD THE GREAT PYRAMID

AT ANY PRICE!

Then he did a quick Google image search, and downloaded three different pictures that he opened and edited in his cracked copy of Photoshop.
The pictures were portraits of the top 3 billionaires from the Forbes' Top 100 list, and each portrait had the text 'save the rich' written underneath in the simplest font he could find.
Then he wrote an appeal to people to download and print the pictures onto self-adhesive paper and stick them up around their neighbourhood.
He decided to do the very same thing himself the next day, and put the stickers all over town - if this sudden courage was still there by morning.
He logged out, and felt fantastic about the whole thing.
As he walked over to make a cup of tea, he said out loud to himself:
”I am a virus. A social virus.”
It made him feel even better.
He logged onto his blog, and uploaded the track "Sleepwalker" by the Norwegian electronic band Frost.
The song title nicely summed-up the present state of people in general, he concluded - especially after today's conversation with Mr. Friend.
Then he wrote once again:

SAVE THE RICH!

LET'S UPHOLD THE GREAT PYRAMID

AT ANY PRICE!

He logged-out, noted down the events of the day in his log, and had his tea while surfing the web for any crucial updates.
Shortly, Vix fell asleep on the chair in front of his desk.
He somehow expected his dreams to become sweet, now that he had filed his protest.
Soon he slept.
Happily unaware that nobody noticed his actions.
After all, he had no friends on Facebook.

Shapes

After the revelations of August 4th Vix had decided to be even more careful than he had been in the months after the April 8th experience.
He’d kept his door firmly locked with all three locks at all times, and had been severely cautious about not leaving too many personal stains behind him online.
Still he woke one morning from a dream that left an impression for hours after waking up far too early:

He had been flying through a dark, foggy space.
The space seemed endless in all directions, or it was simply too dark in there to see its outer limits, he couldn’t tell from inside the dream.
Out of the darkness a luminescent structure gradually appeared.
At first the glowing red matrix of beams blinded him completely, but as his eyes adapted to the light he could see a familiar triangular shape being drawn out of the empty space.
A red, radiant Pyramid was emerging in front of him.
Suddenly a deep, humming sound hit his eardrums, like an electrified didgeridoo. The bass made him feel sick.
He desperately tried to turn around and escape, but couldn’t move.
He tried to close his eyelids, but the red beams had left an imprint on his retinas, and he could still hear the humming sound.
He was inescapably pulled in by the gravity of this ruthless geometrical being.
His heart was pounding inside his chest and his breath made a fast, whining sound between his teeth, like a sweating dog locked inside a car on a hot summer’s day.
The pulling didn’t stop until he found himself right in front of the light-structure. And then he saw it.
This was no Pyramid at all.
He slowly moved down along the side of the thing. It was triangular at each end, with ended in an upside-down “V”-shape. It was much longer at the two sides, and it looked more like an old wire-mesh computer graphic of the roof of an old house than a Pyramid.
The loud humming sound had disappeared, and instead he thought he could hear the sound of birds, like seagulls, and waves hitting the shore in a lazy, slow pulse. Only the sounds were like lo-fi digital representations of the real sounds, like the sound of a bad internet-stream.
Then Vix started laughing. Quietly at first, then more and more hysterically.
What a con this Pyramid was. Not scary at all. Just stupid and weird in some quirky way.
Then he became overwhelmed by a feeling of anger.
“This is such a fucking scam!” he thought.

When he woke up, he was still somehow angry at being conned and scared this way. Still it felt as if something was about to change, that this was some kind of sign.
He decided he needed to go see if Mr. Friend was in the Village.
After all, it was Sunday.

Captured in ice

Njoro opened her eyes.
A throbbing pain radiated from the back of her head.
At first, she couldn't orientate herself at all.
It was dark, apart from a small, strange light shining out from atop a tall figure standing in the middle of the floor facing her.
The light was as cold as the walls of the snow cave she gradually recognised as the place she’d been in before something happened to her. She'd never seen such light before.
"Who are you?" she said to the lightbearer.
The figure said nothing.
She could sense an intense negative energy filling the cave. All blocked-up. Nothing flowing freely. The creature was human like herself, but was totally out of balance. She could sense this effortlessly, so the imbalance must have been very apparent.
"Do you want something from me?" she asked.
The lightbearer still said nothing. It just stood still, radiating fear.
Then it said:
"When I want you to speak, I will ask you to."
She thought this behaviour most peculiar.
She decided to shut up anyway.
The off-balanced human was preoccupied with staring at, and fiddling with, some small device it wore on its left wrist. The device let off the same kind of cold, lifeless light that shone from atop its head, but this one seemed to have a wider spectrum with different frequencies of color radiating from it. The flickering dead colourplay lit up the face of the strange human. Judging by the body build and voice, it was a male, and she saw that he had covered large areas of his face with more artificial-looking materials like the one on his wrist. He also lacked all traces of facial hair, something she found quite repulsive for a grown male.
She decided to give up gathering further understanding of the intruder from the exterior, and rather examine this thing from the inside.
Assured of his total immersion in whatever he was doing with the strange instrument, and content after he rudely assumed that she would not speak unless he wanted her to, she closed her eyes and reached for the Innerworld.
She could see the flickering of millions of lights like tiny stars as the veil tore, and suddenly another world opened up before her inner eyes. She moved towards the hairless device-man. His soul looked even more stark than his exterior. It was as if all his yin energies had been blocked out of the system. Suppressed. Suffocating. Dying.
Njoro had trouble breathing as she got closer to him. She knew it was lucky she was in her dream-body and didn't need air.
Very strange. His whole being seemed uncontrollably dominated by male powers. Just as she was about to look further inside, her mind suddenly broke her concentration:
Pi!
She'd been so preoccupied with trying to examine the intruder that she'd forgotten all about Pi.
Where on Earth was he?
She abruptly left the Innerworld and opened the eyes of her physical self.
She could hear her body breathing faster than when she left.
The light-head didn't take notice. He was still staring into the thing on his wrist, touching it with the fingers on his other hand in tiny, rapid movements.
Insect-like movements, she thought. Not very graceful.
She grabbed the chance to look around inside the cave.
Then she saw it.
Mungpuk.
The Eskimo's dead body lay on the cave floor in the darkness by the wall. She hadn’t noticed it before. A gaping wound beneath his chin led to a wide patch of dried, dark blood covering his upper body.
It was horrible.
She could feel a terrible sorrow fill her soul, and tears pushing through.
What a primitive, savage creature this must be. She couldn’t even imagine how a living thing could do this to one of its own. To take another human's life required the ability to totally block out all one's birth-given empathy and natural connection to the collective consciousness, and by performing this action the Savage proved that he had long since crossed that line.
This meant that she was facing a great danger.
If all empathy and connection to the Soul of Everything was blocked, she had no means of communicating with the creature on any profound level.
She hastily blessed the soul of her passed-on friend and travelling-companion, and then decided to leave the matter of grieving until the situation allowed for it, and instead search for Pi’s whereabouts.
As there was no-one else in the cave now but herself, the Savage and Mungpuk’s dead body - no other presence, living or dead - she felt great relief.
But she was still anxious about wherever else Pi might be.
He had to be somewhere out there. Alone. Hopefully not hurt.
She decided to take another look from the inside as the Savage was still busy.
Eyes closed. Mind still. The flickering of lights, and once again the Innerworld opened its gates to her.
She was floating across the vast, blue landscape. She could feel the tiny pinpricks of crystal icicles penetrating every pore of her facial dream-skin as she flowed through the chilling air. She filled her lungs with the clean coldness, and even though she knew this was her senses on overload giving her sensations that weren't really there, as they were on the physical plane, she enjoyed every second of it.
Njoro simply loved sensing. It didn’t matter what her senses told her, as long as they were present.
As she crossed the ice-clad dreamland she looked all around thoroughly for any kinds of tracks, like recent movements of life-force, imprints on the dreamweb of passing emotions, basically any trails she could possibly follow. But there was nothing there. Not even signs of a stray bear or some other lost polar animal.
And certainly no sign of Pi.
He had to be somewhere out here.
At least he had to be alive, as there were no signs that any being had crossed over to the far side as she could see, and she knew the Savage wouldn't have been able to move him or his body to a very remote location in so little time.
"Hey, witch! I'm talking to you."
She rushed back to reality and opened her eyes.
"What do you people eat?"
The Savage was standing in front of her, shining his cold headlight straight into her face.
She felt very uncomfortable.
He spoke Global quite well, but with a very strong Middle-Northern accent. He must be from the Nova Baltica area, she decided. That's where the most fierce outbreaks of revolt against the House had taken place over the last few years.
It would also explain the strange devices he was carrying.
The main argument in the Middle-North for declaring independence from the Global Unity Circle was down to the resistance they met against their urge to speed up the technology race.
"You probably wouldn't enjoy it very much", she answered.
"So it's all stuff like the smelly lamp here, then? That'll be lukewarm seal-gut stew for dinner, then?"
“Actually we had plans for whale blubber tonight”, Njoro said. “Whale blubber and lime-juice. It’s very nutricious and keeps the scurvy away.”
The Savage said nothing. Then he pointed the headlight down, and she could once more make out his hairless features. His attitude was as unpleasant as before, but at least he had decided to stop blinding her for now.
He pulled some boxes out of his sack, opened them, and started eating the contents.
When she kept looking at him without a word, he said:
"You hungry?"
She shook her head.
He raised his eyebrows and just continued eating. After a while, he said:
"So, tell me. Where's your other friend? You travel in threes and twos, don't you? Law of five.”
Njoro said nothing.
He continued: “The first entourage had two sorry souls in it, so that automatically makes yours a party of three, right? Funny how your superstition makes it all quite easy for me, isn't it?"
Njoro froze from the inside.
"Are you going to tell me, or do I have to make you?"
"I don't know." Njoro said. "I honestly don't know."