Interest (5 page)

9

After meditation, as Len was leaving the hall with the other monks, Mutoku pulled him aside and whispered, “The Great Master wants to meet with you.”

Len was led into a small room. An elderly, balding monk stood in the corner holding a bell. His face showed no expression, and his eyes were cast downward in respectful Japanese fashion. A tatami mat covered bamboo floors. A sliding door was open onto a rock garden, allowing a gentle breeze to blow through. Droopy Japanese maples rustled softly outside. Old Japan had had a genius for creating architecture that instilled a sense of peace, which Len felt had been lost after the second world war. Walking around Tokyo, now overbuilt with concrete and filled with illuminated, talking advertisements, one got no sense of that old harmony.

There was no altar in this room, only a large, gaudy, glass jellyfish sculpture against the far wall. It looked like a freshman art student’s glass-blowing project. Len almost snickered at the tackiness of it but managed not to. In the five years he’d spent in the monastery, he’d always thought it odd that the very people who had devoted their lives to letting go of worldly things couldn’t bear to throw a single item in the trash. Most waste disposal was strictly forbidden in the monastery because it was seen as a detriment to the environment; reusing an item until it fell apart was standard operating procedure. Thus, any gifts given, any objects found, were never thrown out but instead repurposed in the temple. There were old hubcaps serving as gongs, Coke bottles as decorations in the garden, old-lady tchotchkes on the altars, and tea tins as flower pots.

Len looked around again. The old man was still standing in the corner. There were two bowing mats and two little
seiza
benches toward the center that faced a brightly colored mat of the kind that a very important teacher would sit upon. The position of the mats suggested that he and Mutoku would sit on the benches and the Great Master, upon arrival, would sit facing them on the brightly colored mat.

Mutoku did not walk into the room. Instead he stood at the doorway upon coming in, hands folded in
sashu
, in a way that indicated Len should do the same. Len stood and imitated him.

They stood like that for nearly two minutes before Len spoke up. “Mutoku, when will the Great Master arrive?”

“Shh! He is here,” Mutoko whispered.

Len suddenly realized Mutoku was referring to the elderly monk in the corner, and a wave of embarrassment came over him. He’d assumed that the old guy was just a lowly timekeeper or bell ringer, the sort who stood in the corner before every meditation session began. How clever. Len rolled his eyes. They were always making you confront your assumptions, these Zen people.

Mutoko and the elderly monk nodded to each other without making eye contact. Mutoku walked slowly, deliberately to the mats in the center of the room. Len followed. The elderly monk rang the bell crisply three times. Mutoko did three full bows, touching his nose to the mat each time, in the direction of the ugly sculpture. He remained standing after the last bow. Len clumsily followed his lead in all of this. Then, another minute of standing in pregnant silence before the elderly man rang the bell sharply two more times.

“Please be seated,” Mutoku whispered, motioning to one of the benches.

Len sat down, his knees already starting to creak with age. Sitting perfectly still, bolt upright, in meditation created surprising demand on the body. He wondered how much longer he’d need to stay here to accomplish whatever it was he was supposed to be doing.

The old man put the bell down softly in the corner, bowed to the room, then quietly shuffled out the door. Several more minutes of silent sitting elapsed. Len wondered what was going on. When was the Great Master coming back into the room? Was this another one of the obnoxious games that had caused him to leave the monastery years earlier? Len stared at the floor in front of him and tried to clear his mind. Birds chirped outside. Another breeze came through the room.

Stillness.

Just as Len began to relax into the situation, motion in front of him caught his eye. He looked up.

Len had to do a double take. The jellyfish sculpture, which had been sitting on the floor, was now hovering in midair. It wavered like a hummingbird and pulsed with a low-frequency
wub-wub-wub
sound.

“What the hell is that?!” Len gasped.

“
Quiet!
Await the teaching!” Mutoku admonished.

The jellyfish sculpture thing slowly approached Len and Mutoku, then stopped and hovered over the brightly colored mat. The pulsing noise stopped. Mutoku bowed. Len bowed too, not knowing what else to do. Mutoku stood up, removed his robes, folded them carefully, placed them behind him, and sat back down again. He sat there with perfect posture, eyes cast downward, totally buck naked.

“Uh, am I supposed to do that, too?” Len whispered.

“No. Just sit there.”

One of the jellyfish’s thin, clear tentacles slowly stretched outward toward Mutoku.

“
Hai!
I am ready,” Mutoku said in tense Japanese.

The long tentacle draped over the center of Mutoku’s shaven head and the whole way down his spine to his tailbone. On contact, Mutoku’s eyes opened wide and he inhaled sharply. The tentacle then began to pulse, bead-like, like a fire hose full of water in an old cartoon. The noise again,
wub-wub-wub
. Mutoku breathed heavily for a few seconds, muscles taut, as if he had jumped into ice-cold water. Abruptly, Mutoku’s body and face relaxed, his body slumped a bit, and his stare went vacant.

“Who are you?” Mutoku asked while staring straight ahead.

Len looked around. “Who, me? I told you who I am, Mutoku. What am I watching here? Is this some sort of joke? This isn’t funny.” He wanted to believe he was being put on, but he had never seen special effects like these outside of the movies.

The jellyfish raised two tentacles in Len’s direction. Blue arcs of electricity leapt from each of the tentacles into both of Len’s knees, which had been facing the jellyfish as he sat on the
seiza
bench.

“Oh God!” Len fell to the floor and wailed in pain.

Once Len’s screaming and writhing had died down to whimpers, Mutoku spoke again. “We apologize, but the extreme importance of this conversation must be conveyed. We do not have the power of speech. We are speaking through Mutoku.” Mutoku’s voice was distant but oddly resonant.

“Oh, Christ. I’m talking to a jellyfish?”

“We are not a jellyfish. Please sit.”

Len hesitantly got back on the
seiza
bench. Len’s knees where he’d been zapped were numb. “Then what the hell are you?” Len’s heart pounded.

“We are Ich-Ca-Gan. Known in this monastery as the Great Master. We will ask questions first. Who are you?”

“Jim Rivington.” He was beginning to sweat a bit.

“No! You are not!” The creature leveled a tentacle directly at Len’s face.

“OK, OK! Don’t zap me again! My name is Leonard Savitz. I’m a journalist.” Len suddenly felt the depersonalization that came before a panic attack. He put his hand down onto the bench to steady himself.

The creature lowered its tentacles. “And you were sent here by whom?”

“Someone calling herself Neith.”

“Tell Us about Neith.”

“I—I don’t know much. She speaks through a robot. I haven’t met her in person. She forced me to come to this monastery for some reason.”

“And Neith is responsible for the terrorism in the United States?”

“Yes.”

“What information did she ask you to collect?”

“Nothing, actually. She didn’t ask me to collect anything. She is holding my daughter and ex-wife hostage while simultaneously offering me a boatload of cash to come here. A carrot and a stick. I had to come here, there was no choice. She gave no further instructions, only to come here. That’s it.”

The creature lowered its tentacles from the threatening position. Its human proxy was silent for a few seconds, as if chewing on what Len had said.

“You may now ask questions,” said Mutoku’s limp body.

“What the hell are you?”

“We are Ich-Ca-Gan.”

“What does that even mean?”

“We come from Ich-Ca. A gaseous planet near the center of the Milky Way.”

“You’re a fucking space alien? Seriously? Jesus Christ. Look, this is way more than I signed up for. I’d like to go home now.”

“You may not leave. You are a journalist, and you have been sent here to gather information, which We intend to provide. Tonight, prepare your questions thoroughly. We shall hold
dokusan
again tomorrow morning.”

Ich-Ca-Gan’s tentacle peeled away from Mutoko’s spine and head. The creature then hovered back to the far wall, lowered itself to the tatami mat, and came to the resting position in which Len had first seen it.

Mutoku collapsed onto the floor.

“Mutoku!”

“Hai.”
Mutoku blinked a few times. Slowly, legs shaking, he rose, put his robe back on, bowed three times, and exited the room.

10

Len didn’t sleep.

The next morning, Mutoku and Len bowed in again. Len sat down on the
seiza
bench. The old man with the bell shuffled out. Mutoku disrobed and Ich-Ca-Gan draped a tentacle over him as he had done before. Mutoku spasmed, then went zombie.

“How are your knees, Mr. Savitz?” asked Ich-Ca-Gan through Mutoku.

“They’ve bothered me for years, but today they don’t hurt at all. I thought I’d never walk again the way you zapped me.”

“Sometimes the medicine is bitter.”

“Wow. Wow! Is it OK if I take some pictures of you?” Len asked. “No one will ever believe this otherwise. Also, do you mind if I record this interview?”

A long pause, as if the creature was thinking it over.

“You may do both.”

With the morning sun coming through the window, Len wondered if ASA 400 film would be good enough for the lighting. He fumbled to put a roll of film into the old Pentax. He repeated to himself the mental checklist:
Bump on the bottom. Pull the film out a bit, but not too much. Thread it through the slot in the spool, wind it and click the shutter, make sure it’s winding onto the spool. Close the door. Wind it and click the shutter, wind it and click the shutter, until it says 0. Take the lens cap off. Meter the light. Don’t screw this up, Len.
With shaking hands, he adjusted the shutter-speed dial and aperture ring until the light-meter needle was wavering in the middle. He took thirty-six pictures of the creature, the whole roll, then carefully rewound the film, making extra sure the rewinder lever had gone slack before opening the film door and removing the canister. Len put the canister deep into his pocket and, as though it were the winning lottery ticket, patted his pocket twice to make sure it was still there.

Ich-Ca-Gan waited patiently as Len pulled out the ancient microcassette recorder and a legal pad filled with questions scrawled the night before. The previous day’s shock had given way to a sleep-deprived giddiness. The lunacy of the situation was sinking in: extraterrestrial life was granting him an interview. He made sure the recorder had a cassette in it, and he pushed record. The tape reels began to spin.

“Let’s start with the basics. How did you get here?”

“Space warp. Once the technology is mastered, distance becomes irrelevant.”

“Why are you here?”

“We are scientists. We came to study this planet. However, Our subsequent mission is to save the human race.”

“Save us from what?”

“From yourselves and others. More on that later. There is much to explain.”

“How long ago did you come to Earth?”

“Seventeen thousand years ago.”

“Then how old are you?”

“Approximately 235,000 years old.”

Two hundred thirty-five thousand years old. Len was talking to something older than the entire human race.

“How did you learn English?”

“Ich-Ca-Gan does not know English, Mutoku does.”

“Why must you communicate through Mutoku? Why can’t you communicate with me directly?”

“It is not necessary.”

Len studied Ich-Ca-Gan carefully, still in disbelief. He hadn’t noticed the day before that the creature’s transparent body contained semitransparent organs, three of which expanded and contracted with the creature’s subtle rise and fall in altitude. Lungs, perhaps, or maybe a gas ballast system to keep the creature at a constant altitude.

“How do you float like that?”

“We are approximately the same density as the atmosphere on this planet at sea level. We float on Our planet, too.”

“Where are your eyes?”

“We have none. Our nervous system is nothing like yours.”

“Then how do you see me?”

“Our anatomy is far too complicated to explain succinctly. Essentially, We hear and see all that you do, and much more.”

“How did you know of the terrorism in the United States? I haven’t seen any computers or televisions in this monastery.”

“We are not limited to visible light, We perceive the entire electromagnetic spectrum. We see television and radio broadcasts coming through the walls the way you see daylight coming through the window.”

“Amazing.” Len scribbled notes furiously. “Why do you refer to yourself as ‘we’? I only see one of you. Are there more of you on Earth?”

“There were as many as fifteen Ich-Ca-Gan on Earth, but only one remains, the one with whom you are speaking. In truth, everything is We. Evolution on Earth is competitive: kill or be killed. Evolution on Ich-Ca is symbiotic: cooperate or die. Thus, creatures on Earth have evolved to form egos and self-identities, the belief that they are separate and apart from each other and the environment. Ich-Ca-Gan have evolved with a different understanding of Our place in the order of things. We do not see Ourselves as separate from each other, or Our environment, as beings on Earth do. Ich-Ca-Gan are an inextricable part of the universe, just as humans are without realizing it. First-person singular is a dishonest fiction to Us. ‘I’ is a human imagining—a delusion, a duality, a suffering. There is no ‘I.’ We have tried for many years to teach human beings this truth, but your species requires many years of mindfulness training before being able to grasp it.”

The answer, and the creature’s age, made Len wonder if he were speaking to the originator of Dharmic religions. “Did you have something to do with the creation of Buddhism? Is that why you’re here in this temple?”

“We inadvertently created all religions. Over the millennia, We tried teaching human beings both compassion for all living things and simple scientific truths. However, humans were not in a fit state to receive such lessons. They were willfully ignorant, irrational, preoccupied with magic and deities. They turned anything We taught them into mythology by worshipping Us as devas or gods. This puzzled Us, as it did not reconcile with the substantial intellect and reasoning capabilities of the human mind.”

“Yeah, well, we’re famous for not using our huge brains.”

“Through further research, we discovered that most human beings had been genetically engineered to forgo truth. The limitation was intentional.”

As if to punctuate the statement, Mutoku’s vacant body let out a high-pitched fart.

“Human beings were genetically engineered? By whom? For what purpose?”

“You were engineered to be slaves by the Dranthyx.”

“The Dranthyx?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand. What’s a Dranthyx? Humans didn’t evolve from monkeys?”

“Humans did indeed evolve from monkeys, but they were further engineered to serve the Dranthyx, Earth’s only superintelligent race prior to Our arrival.”

“Wait, so there are other kinds of aliens on earth?”

“The Dranthyx are not aliens.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Let’s rewind. Are these Dranthyx still on Earth?”

“Yes.”

“Do they still keep humans as slaves?”

“Yes.”

“Then why haven’t I heard about any of this before?”

“For the same reason you do not give any thought to your heart beating—you take it for granted. It has been happening in plain sight for thousands of years. The entire human race is enslaved and has never known anything else.”

“How can someone enslave us without our knowing it?”

“Debt.”

“Debt?”

“Yes, debt. At Our arrival on this planet, the Dranthyx used overt force to control humanity. However, as humans developed communication and weapons technologies, the Dranthyx feared losing control of the human race. Hence they devised a new scheme to control human beings covertly from the shadows: compound interest. Debt is everywhere. Debt is the leash around your neck. Humanity is crushed under debts public and private, and there is no mathematical possibility of paying any of it back. Your governments, which humans believe are there to protect them, exist only to enforce this scheme.”

“So the Dranthyx are bankers?”

“The Dranthyx are more than that. They control the entire global financial system. In addition, the Dranthyx control most land, farms, water sources, the securities exchanges, and all energy production. They own the corporations you work for, they control the governments you live under. They are the puppeteers behind your entire existence.”

“OK, let’s go back to slavery. I don’t understand why they’re using us for. What exactly do we do for the Dranthyx that they can’t do themselves?”

“Humans do many things for them: mineral extraction, food production, even scientific research and engineering. The Dranthyx could easily do that work themselves but no longer need to. They have designed their civilization around free human labor.”

“How can these…Dranthyx…run the world without humans noticing? That sounds pretty management heavy to me.”

“They take great care to remain hidden. They live among you, camouflaged. You may have met one or two without realizing it. And you are correct about management. To avoid detection, they delegate most management tasks to special humans designed for that purpose.”

Len wasn’t a fast writer and struggled to keep up.

Ich-Ca-Gan paused for a bit, then said, “Mutoku tells me you have a background in Zen Buddhism.” It almost sounded like an abrupt change to small talk.

“Yes, I lived in a Japanese monastery near Kyoto for five years.”

“And what is your connection to banking?”

“Huh? I’ve never worked in banking…oh! Wait, I think I know what you mean. There’s no connection, really. I did an investigative piece a few years ago about corruption at the Federal Reserve, the central bank in the United States. The story won a Pulitzer and I got a few death threats.”

“It sounds as though you are not here by mistake, Mr. Savitz. You were handpicked to conduct this very interview.”

Len stopped writing and looked up. While he was trying to wrap his head around talking to a floating, mind-melding, electric space jellyfish, Ich-Ca-Gan had slammed a puzzle together like some genius gorilla.

“Jesus,” Len exclaimed, “Neith is fighting the Dranthyx?”

“It would seem so.”

“And I’m here, specifically me, because Neith knew you would provide me insight into these Dranthyx?”

“We believe your presence here is intended as a greeting to Us from Neith.”

“How did she even know you exist when no one else does?”

“We have remained in seclusion in this monastery for seven hundred years. Even most of the monks in this temple are unaware of Our existence, simply believing Us to be an inanimate, religious relic. Humans outside this monastery had forgotten about Us. However, nothing remains hidden if one sifts enough data. Prior to Our seclusion, Our presence on Earth was public knowledge and was recorded by humans in countless historical objects. Unlike the Dranthyx, who have painstakingly erased all evidence of their existence, We have never destroyed artifacts that refer to Us. This Neith you speak of apparently has access to ancient Japanese texts and the ability to analyze them. It would appear that there is now a third superintelligence at work.”

“Superintelligence? You mean Neith isn’t human?”

“It is unlikely. Consider the military and intelligence capabilities of the US government. One doesn’t simply execute several successful surprise attacks against the most powerful nation in history. From what We see on the broadcast news, its—or her—tactical execution exceeds human capabilities. Watching her move is like watching a supercomputer checkmate a human chess master again and again.”

“Where did she come from?”

“We could guess, but We can’t be certain. She may have been created by a major government or by the Dranthyx themselves. She may even be of extraterrestrial origin.”

“Where is she physically located?”

“We are sorry. We don’t know any more than what We can extrapolate from the broadcasts. The nature of her existence is pure conjecture on Our part.”

“What do you think she wants?”

“If she is of terrestrial origin, which is the most likely scenario, she would have a physical presence somewhere on Earth that could be targeted. She would be killed or destroyed if she were discovered. If she is as rational as she is deliberate, We must assume that she has weighed the risk of her own annihilation against overthrowing Dranthyx control and has decided in favor of the latter. She is risking her own existence to start a revolution.”

Len furiously scribbled notes.

“OK, so, you mentioned something about individual humans being engineered for specific tasks. How does that work?”

“As We mentioned, the Dranthyx have modified human DNA for their own purposes. In doing so, they created three main breeds of humans: Tchogols, Saskels, and Xreths.” Mutoku’s mouth clicked while saying these words as though he were speaking an African bush language. “These are the original Dranthyx terms. Forgive Us, Mutoku’s human mouth was not designed to pronounce these sounds. The Dranthyx spliced some of their own genes directly into a number of humans, creating the original Tchogol stock. Tchogols, like the Dranthyx, have no empathy, no remorse, and no conscience. Dranthyx DNA gives them a strong drive toward material wealth and power. They were designed to be ruthless, cunning, and charismatic.”

“They sound like garden-variety sociopaths.”

“Sociopaths are indeed Tchogols, Mr. Savitz. Sociopathy itself is a result of inheriting Dranthyx genetics. To be more technical, Tchogol genes cause charisma, profound greed, and a lack of both empathy and remorse. The genes can be expressed as a number of different phenotypes: sociopathy, psychopathy, narcissism, antisocial personality disorder. Due to their ruthlessness and inborn desire for domination, the Tchogols are the unwitting managers of the Dranthyx slave hierarchy. As a border collie instinctively herds animals without being told to do so, Tchogols simply do what they were genetically programmed to: they rise to the top of organizations by any means necessary and rule. They do this without even knowing that the Dranthyx exist. Tchogols range in intelligence from far below average to incredibly bright. A number of recessive genes must combine to produce a pure Tchogol, and therefore they compose only a small percentage of the population.”