Freedom Club (31 page)

“I see,” Sumeet nodded.

Gupta finished off the last of the biscuits, shaking his hands free of crumbs. “From early experiments, we came to understand what happens when poor education and catastrophic repression is used to inhibit unwanted instincts, the type of unconscious minds that are formed. That’s why it is unthinkable to do that to a modern-day Sentient. Its illegality pales before the moral implications.”

“It would be a monster, I suppose,” Shinzou said.

Gupta’s face became dark and foreboding. “Should a creature of that kind be brought into this world, there is no telling what it might do.”

Before Gupta could say more, a small chime went off. Using open air commands, Gupta entered virtual space as Sumeet and Shinzou looked around patiently.

“The archived files have been restored,” Gupta said out loud, swiping wildly in the air. Then he became still and looked at Shinzou unhappily. “Sorry, Shinzou, the files are locked.”

“But you’re the director, Babu.”

“Yes but I wasn’t the director at that time. And these files are locked to the fellows who worked on that project. Maybe someone in the government has clearance, but you might try that man...eh, what was his name?”

“Kamiyoshi,” Shinzou replied.

“Yes, him. Sorry, I can’t give you these files. And even if he agreed to open them, he would need to come here physically before we allowed access.”

“I understand, Babu.”

Gupta stood up and extended his hands in warm thanks. “We can talk more at a later time about this. In the meantime, I must excuse myself and attend some other meetings. You are welcome to stay here if you like. The security system will escort you out when you decide to leave.”

After the final handshakes, Shinzou and Sumeet watched Dr. Gupta walk out the bulky sliding doors. They then turned their attention to the Sentient nursery, glowing as it did before with the light of countless chambers. Gazing down, the two looked on with unending fascination. Sumeet especially appreciated the moment, knowing full well it might be the last time in his life he would get the chance.

“You know,” Shinzou said, taking in the sight, “this new information is quite important. I hate to ask, but would you mind if we continue on the maglev? If Kamiyoshi is in Japan, maybe we’ll end our Bisbee tour tonight and head for Tokyo this evening. We’ll arrive by morning if we catch the red eye.”

“Uhm... yes, that’s fine. Anyhow, I need to be in Japan to catch my flight back home,” Sumeet agreed without much thought.

“We still will have plenty of time to discuss things on the way. But don’t you think it’s strange?” Shinzou said.

“What?”

“A theological teacher supporting a classified Sentient research project?”

Sumeet considered momentarily. “Based on what Dr. Gupta just explained, it does seem odd. What do you think it means?”

“I’m not sure,” Shinzou said to the ether before him. “I’m just not sure.”

Both stood silently before the massive kilometer-long observation window. The orange incandescent glow of Sentients filled the air in every direction, and one could only imagine the free-flowing thoughts of the new race that percolated on the floor below. Logical discourse, deep concentration encapsulating every corner of sentient knowledge, and even the imaginations of godlike genius.

But for all the Sentient Beings before them, not one would attempt a simple leap of faith. Not now, not ever. For it was beyond the well-regulated rules of man and Sentient alike.

It was, simply, unthinkable.

September 21, 1939
Maresfield Gardens – England

T
hree centigrams of morphine, enough to bring about coma and eventual death. Any less would not do, thought Max Schur as he looked on with dark hollowed eyes. Laying bedridden before him was his friend and patient, Dr. Sigmund Freud. After several weeks of contemplation and soul searching, there was no point waiting. Freud’s cancer was winning. And death, though not an optimal state of being, was preferable to the suffering caused by his cancer’s festering wound.

“Thank you, my friend,” Sigmund wheezed over and over.

Max didn’t reply. He couldn’t accept thanks for administering a lethal dose. That wasn’t a medical doctor’s duty, at least in the traditional sense. Still, morality was no longer at issue. The words “thou shalt not kill” were not appropriate. As with so many truisms, new circumstances arose, ones never conceived in the simple minds of ancients. Those who crafted words with love and wisdom, but ignored any possible terminus. A place where words, like men, must come to their end.

Max sighed, and carefully squeezed out excess air from the needle before placing it on Sigmund’s outstretched arm. After all the arguments, it all came down to this. A hypodermic needle, inserted carefully into the vein. And with just one simple push, it was done.

“Thank you, my friend,” Freud whispered one last time.

The effect took only moments. Closing his eyes slowly, Freud went into a deep sleep. The final resting place of dreams, and illusion.

A
nd with a snap, Freud’s eyes opened once again. To his astonishment, he sat reclining in an easy chair placed before a lush garden. His favorite place in their temporary British home. A place for contemplation and rest, that is, before the cancer had festered beyond tolerance.

His eyes darted about, and he frowned with consternation. Why was he still alive? And what had transpired after the injection? It had all been agreed to over the past few days. With all the trouble and fuss, it was unexpected and unwelcome.

Huffing loudly, Freud threw off a small wool blanket that covered his lap and stood up, ready to find answers. But what about his attire? He looked down and inspected himself. Suit and tie were immaculate, and his black leather shoes were polished to a high glossy shine. All was in order. Good! Now where the hell was everyone?

“Max? Anna?” he called out.

There was no reply. But his own voice surprised him. It was strong, not feeble and tired like the sputtering of an old dying man. Raising his hand carefully, he felt around his neck and cheek. There was no pain. Could some magical cure have been invented in the last moments of his life? Impossible, but it would have to remain another mystery for the time being. That is, if he could find anyone to converse with.

Finally, a voice emanated from behind some bushes. “Hello, Sigmund. It is good to see you up and around.”

“Who’s there!” Freud demanded.

From behind a large patch of rose bushes walked a man. Quite tall and dressed in parishioners clothing, he smiled through a large, busy mustache.

“Oskar? Oskar Pfister? Is that you?” Freud asked, quite unsure what to make of things. “What are you doing here, old friend? When did you arrive in England?”

Oskar took Freud’s hand and shook passionately before they embraced warmly. Then Oskar took a few steps back and displayed himself to Freud with arms wide open.

“Well, here I am, in this beautiful garden of yours. There is nothing more to say, other than that your wish has brought me here.”

Freud remained confused. “But the war, how did you secure your travel documents?”

Oskar waved his hand unassumingly. He then walked over to a blooming rose bush and drew in its scent deeply. Smiling, he looked up with unbridled satisfaction.

Oskar said, “We don’t have much time, but this garden offers a chance to have one final discussion about man and his illusions.”

“I don’t understand,” Freud said, taking a step forward. Then he stopped, and slowly put his hand again upon his cheek. Realizing that the pain of his cancer had disappeared, he gazed at Oskar with one eyebrow raised. “This is my imagination, isn’t it? It’s not real.”

“What is real, eh?” Oskar said, while pacing around the rose bush. “Many believe reality is like a rose. Is it the rose itself or the mere thought of a rose that counts? But for now, we need not concern ourselves with that. Let’s discuss something far more interesting.”

“Like what?”

“The future of civilization. That would seem appropriate given...your situation.”

“What situation? That in reality I’m miserable, old, and dying?”

“Yes!”

Freud harrumphed again and approached the bush. Oskar examined its flowers, and then gazed at other plants that began to take his fancy. What was he up to? Did it matter? Freud watched Oskar intently, and thought about where the whole conversation was going as the aroma of fresh flowers filled the air.

“You see, my old friend,” Oskar began. “I am not quite sure if you got everything right.”

Freud laughed. “People of faith have often reminded me of that! In no uncertain terms.”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand,” Oskar said, gesturing to some chairs that now appeared amongst a group of lilacs in full bloom. “I am happier to argue with one unbeliever like yourself, rather than agree with a thousand worthless believers. But it’s not argument I seek, rather, a clarification.”

Freud sat down in the wicker chair and began to rock back and forth. “Clarification. About what?”

“Your interpretation of civilization,” Oskar said, sitting down in the other chair nearby. “As I recall you said it was defined as, firstly, man’s accumulated knowledge, followed by man’s rules. The one’s we use to deal with each other, or something like that.”

Freud thought over the statement and furrowed his brows contemplatively. “Yes, well, I think I worded it a bit differently, but that captures the basic thought.”

“Why exactly do you separate these two? Knowledge used to conquer nature and behavior toward each other. Why not categorize behavior as a form of knowledge in itself?”

Freud looked in his jacket and conveniently pulled out a large cigar from his breast pocket. Lighting a match, he began puffing until a small plume of billowy smoke floated upwards. Satisfied, he continued looking at the cigar as though it had posed the question.

“I suppose it all has to do with our instincts.”

“The aggressive instinct, you mean,” Oskar quickly added.

“Well, yes,” Freud said, nodding. “That particular one is an intrinsic part of us, and constantly applies pressure against the better wishes of civilization, which prefers that everyone work for the benefit of others and distribute wealth fairly. Without such rules, what we call civilization would disintegrate. Of that I’m certain.”

“But we also have the passion to love each other. Doesn’t that act as a natural counterbalance?” Oskar said.

Freud shook his head and tapped ashes onto the grass. “No. Love, as you espouse from the pulpits, is really just a recent incarnation of morality. I don’t believe the church, or any society for that matter, has been successful in coercing man to lay down his passions. But civilization has been trying for a long time.”

Oskar huffed out loud. “So, you don’t see religion as the primal source of morality?”

Freud looked over at Oskar. So typical. Had they not been friends for over fifteen years, the question might have been interpreted quite negatively.

“I believe that morality is much older than any religion and has been with man since he separated himself from nature, eons ago. Today’s morals offered by the church may indeed be more sophisticated, meeting the needs of man. But morality as such has been around since the start of civilization and has followed us as we evolved.”

Oskar rose from his chair and began to pace in front of Freud. The answer bothered him and his deep, brooding eyes searched for a point of discourse to pursue on behalf of God.

“This troubles me greatly,” Oskar said, while looking again at the lilacs. “If you’re right, then man is doomed to suffer his aggressions, with or without the church. That can’t be true. I’m certain God’s love will eventually win.”

Freud looked around and smiled at all the beautiful greenery that surrounded him. “Well, in this particular setting, which seems to be an illusion of my mind, let me be more forthcoming. The church will fail. But that shouldn’t keep you from trying. You have done good work on behalf of your parish. And that’s high praise, coming from an atheist Jew like myself.”

Oskar nodded sadly. “I was hoping for a better answer.”

“You won’t find one,” Freud answered sharply, waving his cigar in circles. “At least not in the present. Maybe one day they will discover how to fully suppress or remove man’s passions. Perhaps a chemical will be found.”

“Or a child will be born, one lacking our animal instincts,” Oskar said.

“Well, there’s a funny thought,” Freud said, laughing in his chair. “Maybe we’ll simply produce that child like we produce cars on an assembly line, eh? Anything is possible with a little imagination, I suppose.”

Freud and Oskar laughed between themselves. The conversation had gotten to the point where speculation had led to fantasy of the absurd kind. But was it mere fantasy? Deep down, Freud had some doubts about the jokes he made. Maybe it was possible. Looking off into the distance, he considered all this until a low rumble interrupted his thoughts. The ambient light all around began to change. The sky began to darken as brief flickers of light signaled the telltale signs of an approaching storm.

Oskar looked up while turning slowly in place. “I think the morphine is starting to work.”