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HE MONK HEARS THE
ANIMALS hundreds of meters away—the ones with hooves running while the pawed
ones hunt them. He also hears the birds chirping, the leaves rustling, the
waterfall roaring, and the wind speaking. Yes, speaking. Not
every High Grade voices the wind or hears it speak. But he does. As the flora and fauna
ring in his ears, a thought disturbs the Monk—Yuan—why after two decades? He
frowns. How unusual for a monk to frown or to think needlessly! Yuan shields his mind. His
eyes closed in deep meditation. A ninety-nine-year-old monk who mastered time
and desires shouldn’t let little thoughts infect his inner quiet. Mastering time isn’t about
stopping time, rather, slowing down its effects. Though in the last decade, he
has let his dark wavy hair fade and wrinkles grow near his eyes. Even a line or
two is visible on his forehead. He sits on a cliff now. His toned torso half-covered
in a dark, plain shawl. His chest swells in flawless, mathematical rhythm when
he breathes. Mist rises from the roaring waterfall as the water hits the
foothills below. All that water, flowing among the hills, forms the river that
looks like a serpent from here. His home, Lotus Lodge—a white disc-shaped
structure with a lotus pond half-encircling it—stands above the cliff opposite
the waterfall where he meditates. He waits; they will be here
soon, the wind says. Here they come— Yuan smiles. Subtle stirs in
the prana field eke from the forest, spreading, constantly tapping his ground.
At first, they’re few, then more, but not countless. Nothing around him is
countless, not while he is in focus. The stirs, caused by light footsteps, grow
stronger. Something is different today. Blood and a whimper. Yuan opens his eyes. White
rabbits wandering all around, poking him, touching him, rubbing their noses at
his feet, or merely exploring the thick grass, ignoring his presence, as if showing
their appearance was enough of a favor. Yuan sees the tiniest rabbit struggling
to reach him. One of its legs wounded, and a dark rotten feather sticking to
its body. The feather smells of death. There must be a dead bird somewhere. Dead bird! Why didn’t he smell it
earlier? Yuan, removing the feather, stretches his hand towards the rabbit. It hops
on, sensing the burst of healing energy. All living creatures always sense what
heals their woe—it’s a code in their subconscious. Removing the thought about the
rotten feather, for now, Yuan calms his core, inhaling prana—the
source energy from the air. The animal’s wound healing. All the rabbits
turn their necks, watching him. At last, he deserves attention. They run to the
Monk; jumping; climbing along the layered folds of his dark shawl; settling on
his lap, thighs, and shoulders; competing with one another for the healing
energy; seeking a share of the purity coming from the highest possible
evolution in the universe. A monk’s purity procured through strict abstention
won’t stain. Even a dead bird’s foul feather can’t tinge it. Swish and halt! A bot, flying from Lotus
Lodge, stops inches from Yuan. A sphere head floating on a cylindrical
body—Yuan’s personal AI, Pico, is linked into it, but not in a full version. So,
Pico Not-Full-Version watches these wild rabbits, as it does every day. “Yuan, it’s time,” it says. The Monk, Yuan, stands, done
with afternoon meditation. What would make a feather rot? He looks at
the forest, and then, closes his eyes. Focusing his mind, he searches for any
sign of death in the forest. But nothing. Prana diminishes with death. He won’t
know if the dead bird is far away. His thought about the bird
halts as the CRAB in his wrist glows. CRAB—Conservable RNA Augmented Body—the faithful servant
for a citizen, as the advertisements from the New World Government say. This
parasitic bio-computer, installed in his left wrist, bears his identity. A text
message came. Read it? Or not read it?—the Monk wonders. Read it, he commands his CRAB. A hologram shows on it when he
fists that hand near his chest. A message visible in his inbox: You’re
missing the Independence Day Speech, auto-signed with Ren. Ignore, Yuan tells himself. The next text plays in his
brain when he is not looking at the CRAB: Come on! The war hero can’t miss
the speech in Alphatech when the war hero himself is its owner! Ren. Ignore … Yuan doesn’t reply to Ren
Agnello, the CEO of Alphatech—the world’s leading transport and robotics
industry, of which the Monk is the founder. Well, one of the two
founders. Ignoring me? Pico said you saw
my text! Yuan looks at Pico as his CRAB
sends this message right into his brain. “You didn’t say I couldn’t
tell him,” Pico defends itself. It’s not in its full version, but so what? It
still is a young AI. In two decades, it learned how to recognize facial
expressions, at least. Look, old monk. You can’t ruin
this. It’s my Alphatech, too. Ren. The next text message comes. Manage. I’m busy—Yuan thinks the reply. The
CRAB in his wrist reads his thought and sends it to Ren, adding the auto-signature
YY. Everyone knows it’s the signature of the founder of Alphatech, the
signature of the monk war hero—Yuan Yagmur. Pico mentioned who you’re
meeting tonight. Ren. The next message soon follows, and Yuan looks at Pico
again after reading it. “Who do you serve?” he asks in
a flat tone with no hint of surprise or anger. A monk never gets angry. He
simply states, witnesses, and flows along with the current of prana. “Lotus Lodge,” Pico replies. “Lotus Lodge?” Yuan asks. “Are
you serving a house instead of its master, then?” “Sorry,” Pico says, “Ren
changed a few lines in my coding.” “And you let him,” Yuan states
calmly. “I’m a home-service bot now.
You don’t let me connect to my source!” Pico complains the same way it’s been
complaining for five years. It was disconnected from its source AI—the real
Pico—twenty years ago, right after it was made. Within fifteen years, this bot collected
enough data to grow into a strong AI itself. At least, intelligent enough to
know about its source, which is sleeping in the basement of Lotus Lodge—secured
and locked, never to be awakened again. However, anything intelligent
always looks for its source—it’s the oldest law of the universe. “You could defend Ren’s codes.
But you didn’t,” Yuan replies. “You wanted an excuse to talk about your source.”
“But you said I don’t need
defense from Ren Agnello.” Pico uses all its logic. “You said he passes the
definitions of ‘friend’ and ‘trustworthy’ and ...” Pico begins a list of keywords. Yuan ignores the keywords. The
thin lines on his forehead deepen, the wrinkles near his eyes tighten, and the
frown in between his brows grows visible. These days, the word Source is
coming frequently, ever since that man asked to meet. Don’t meet him. That monster
has an agenda. Ren. The CRAB forwards the text to his mind. Yuan silences
all texts, but they keep coming anyway: Why
after two decades? Ren. It smells fishy. Ren. Just because he's a childhood buddy, you'll run to him? Ren. Maybe I didn’t see the Apocalypse with you, but I'm your war
comrade, too. Ren. The texts stay unread in his CRAB. Yuan approaches the edge of
the cliff. Jump? Or not jump?—he wonders. The waterfall feels like a
magnet full of untainted energy when his hand has touched something dead. Although,
the hand feels energetically cleaner after healing a life with prana. His half-aging, half-youthful
skin at the back of that hand has tightened. It looks younger than his other one
now. He examines that hand. His skin hasn’t felt this smooth for so long. Jump, he decides, letting his shawl
fall on the grass baring his torso. He doesn’t step away from his wooden
sandals, each with a two-inch block at the center. “Recharge my car,” he says. “Won’t you use the AT?” Pico
refers to Aerial Transports. “I want my ride slow,” Yuan
says. “Why do you shower in the waterfall?”
Pico asks again. “I have too much time.” Yuan jumps from the cliff,
diving into the air. The wind whispers in his ears what you may never
hear. Target: the tree branch thirty feet below. Next, the stone twenty feet
further down. Then, the flat slab and another branch. Finally, the bed of stones
where all the water, falling from a few hundred feet, gets collected like a
whirlpool and overflows into the river further down. The Monk doesn’t go below.
He stays near the whirlpool. The cold water beats the
muscles beneath his skin. He senses his energy, the prana, vibrating, looking for a release, either as a subconscious beast
or as a conscious creator. Prana
heals. Prana
kills. Prana
helps you
evolve. The twinge of guilt comes. It’s
hard not to be glad that the Apocalypse happened. Or they never could’ve found the
highest possibilities for humans. Yuan breathes deeply. Is this what greed
feels like? Is he turning into a monster, like him? Yuan browses the
CRAB in his mind. His brain sees an older text: Let’s meet where we met last. On the 19th, 19:20 hours. Ruem D. Didn’t even ask if he will be
free on the 19th at 19:20 hours! That arrogant devil! Many lose their paths, blinded
by evolution. Addiction to power is like any other addiction; you’ll just want
it more. That earthquake, ninety years ago, spared few to record it for the
next generation. Humans sinned. Persistently existing in clogged colonies was
their sin. The series of quakes lasted a week; each shake came in between long
intervals. Oh! Those intervals! A week of despair and questions. Why did I
survive? … Why did fate save me and not them? … Will fate save me the next time?
Uncertainty—not for food or shelter, but for life. Fear of death. Fear of
living alone. He was a child back then. Him
and also Ruem. “Win your fear, and you’ll
evolve.” Their Master’s voice lulls the Monk in his mind. He stands below the mighty waterfall,
facing up, and stops breathing for minutes. He opens his eyes, welcoming the
water falling forcibly. Evolution has its charms. People think harsh training has
been its door, but in reality, it was easier to find. The door stood right
before their eyes. Always. Time. Time was and always has
been the door. The time that school, work, and social gatherings couldn’t take
after the Apocalypse. Distractions ended. Thoughts began. Then thoughts
stopped, too, and the universe entered. The true power came during the long
nights. Sometimes while watching the stars, sometimes, fearing the lightning
and thunder. Sometimes, accepting the energy the universe pushed through their
navel when their stomach growled. Soon, no religion or ritual told them to
fast, yet they were fasting. Deliberately. The door opened. Secrets came as
they inhaled the cosmos, the prana,
and not just the air. “Yuan.” Pico flies down to the
base of the waterfall. “You’ve four appointments with—” “Cancel,” Yuan says with an unreadable
face. A monk’s face has to be unreadable. Among the roaring water,
there’s one slanted wall of flat rock at a side where the stream runs smoothly.
In that smooth stream, the Monk looks at his reflection. His faded hair usually
touches his built neck and shoulders; it now drips water. Negligibly aging body
cells have made his strong muscles. The dominant life force—prana—keeps their metabolism perfect,
decreasing their weakening rate. His light-brown skin has gained a texture like
an unevolved man in his fifties should. Not bad for a human close to his
hundredth year of living. As he dives into the whirlpool
of water, Pico tries to convince him again. “What about the online
linked-speech at nine other news portals?” “Cancel all.” “You canceled everything in
the morning. You were home all day, doing nothing,” Pico says. “Doing nothing is hard,” Yuan
says calmly as if his voice is another part of nature and not noise. “I don’t speak philosophy. I’m
not in my full version.” Yuan ignores. Soon, he gets
the sensation again—something smelling of death. Keeping his face calm, he
focuses his senses. The forest. That’s where the smell is
coming from. He stares for a little longer. Go? Or not go?—he wonders. Go. It has to be ‘Go’. The
forest holds the earth’s rarest treasures. His treasures, and they took
fifty years to grow. “Give the speech on my behalf.
Create my voice and face,” Yuan instructs Pico, approaching the forest. Leaping
on this stable stone, jumping over that thick log, and crossing a few fierce
streams, he walks towards the depth of the forest, the end of Lotus Lodge
property. The only sound coming is from his wooden sandals: pit-pat …
pit-pat … “A war hero’s fake speech!
That’s a crime!” Pico keeps complaining. “Even a home-service bot bearing the
ghost of a legendary AI will be processed for that!” Yuan ignores as Pico brings up
its source again. “A war hero is permitting you. Keep it a secret,” he says. “You’re using your war hero privilege!” “Privilege exists not to be stored
in a locker,” Yuan says, feeling the time again from the dimming daylight. He
will be late. “Is the meeting that
important?” Pico asks. “Ren said Ruem Drohung is not the same person you once
knew. I saw Ruem’s files. By your definitions, he’s not human.” Pico
emphasizes ‘your’ as much as a drone robot’s high-definition voice-box can. Yuan looks at Pico. As a
private joke, he and Ruem recreated their master’s voice, installing it in
Pico’s AI three decades ago. Now their own master’s voice—the master who trained
them both—says Ruem isn’t a human. “You’re judging humans. One of your creators,
no less,” Yuan says, half-informing, half-praising. “I’m repeating what Ren said.” “Stay here,” the Monk says,
leaving Pico near the waterfall. “Are you angry because I said
Ruem is not a human?” Pico asks while doing what Yuan asked it to do—staying
where it hovers. “Are you going to visit your pets?” “They are not pets.” “I think canceling meetings
and visiting five-hundred-and-sixty-seven pets isn’t a good idea. Ren wouldn’t
call it profitable.” “They are not pets.” Minutes later, Yuan reaches
the shield: invisible, built of strong magnetism combined with fatal frequencies.
It burns whatever passes through the laser-wrapped wire mesh that surrounds the
Lotus Lodge property. Yuan stands right before it. That’s when he finds them. Birds. Mammals. Reptiles. That one was George—a Cheetah
with the most flaming fur. That one was Gogy—a gorilla
with the clearest pair of eyes. That one was Ms. Mimbo—a
hybrid of Macao and African Grey Parrot. And the one near the stone was … well,
the Monk goes through around three dozen names. It took fifty years of careful
watch to make sure they don’t go extinct. If you live long enough, you might,
as well, end up befriending every life your neighboring forest holds. And if
you are a war hero, you might even get professionals from the Wildlife
Conservation Board helping you during their crossbreeding process. But they’re all dead. At
least, the rarest portion of what this forest, this world, has—had—are now
dead. He thought he was protecting them while guarding the North. Maybe he was wrong. The Monk’s jaw stiffens. He
stops counting the dead animal bodies scattered outside the shield. He even
stops recalling the names he gave them. These animals didn’t die normally. Not
from the shield or the wire mesh either, no. Animals never tried to cross the mesh
because of its repelling frequencies. They weren’t alive when they
were thrown. Yuan freezes his gaze—They. Were. Thrown. They need to be burned for
whatever they went through. And whatever they went
through, no one must know. It’s evil. It’s sick. Evil and sick together brings
chaos. “Send some fuel, Pico,” he mutters,
and his CRAB sends it to Pico as a direct call. “Fuel?” Pico receives the call,
still hovering where Yuan left it. Its voice reaches the Monk’s CRAB. “For a fire,” Yuan says. “It’s not night yet for your
lonely bonfire,” Pico says. “But I could understand the significance of a
daylight bonfire if I could access my source database.” If Pico’s voice had high-definition
emotions, it’d have sounded hopeful now. But ruining its hope, Yuan
ignores the source part. Again. “You used lonely for the fourth
time this week,” he says. “Was it Ren, too?” “Yes.” The unapologetic reply of
Pico comes soon. *** BY THE TIME Pico brings fuel on
a hover disc, and Yuan burns all the dead animals, his trousers dry up. He walks
back to the falls with Pico hovering behind him. The entire time Pico doesn’t
mention the words ‘pets’ or ‘meetings’ even once. “Check the records around the
shields over the last few days. The animals were thrown. Find their speed when
they hit the shield,” Yuan says, checking the time. If he doesn’t leave now, he’ll
be late. He climbs the cliff, leaping
to land on stones and branches, as if he’s a feather and not a ninety-nine-year-old
man. His wooden sandals making sounds: pit-pat … pit-pat … With one last pit-pat,
he lands on the terrace along his bedroom, at the rear of Lotus Lodge. The
transparent wall of his room slides, sensing his presence. From the floor, he
takes the shawl, which Pico has made sure, were brought home from the cliff, cleaned
of all grass and rabbit furs and kept perfectly folded. Pico flies up, hovering around
him. “The average speed was 800 mph,” it informs. “None of them passed through
the shield.” 800 mph—Yuan frowns. Handmade bullets,
when they existed during the war, had that kind of speed. The animals should’ve
exploded. But they didn’t. Which means … “They were thrown on Monday
night,” Pico informs again. The Monk’s frown deepens as
Pico confirms what he was thinking. Monday night is actually Tuesday evening in
the Arabic calendar since Arabic day begins with sunset. ‘The secrets of
Tuesday’s darkness, coinciding with stoned and deceased animals hurled at a human
territory …’ The words he read decades ago now bloom in his memory. It was
in a book from Ruem’s collection. How can he remember it so clearly? Why does he remember it? Why
now? “Should I inform the Wildlife
Conservation Board?” Pico asks. “They must not know.” “How will you explain
thirty-seven rare animals going missing without lying? Even lying wouldn’t
help. They will find out the next day. And I still believe you shouldn’t have
burned them.” “I’ll handle it,” Yuan says
while quickly wearing a dark shirt and trousers. “You entered through the terrace
again! And you dripped water on the floor!” Pico complains. Though, the water won’t ruin
the wood that has the era’s latest varnishing technology. Yuan ignores Pico. He senses
the cleaner drones flying here from the storage. He soon leaves Lotus Lodge,
taking his shawl, wooden sandals, and his car—dark, matte-finished, and metallic
body. Tonight’s rendezvous is beyond
the walls. Sufi Raags—a kind of music made with
local instruments: Sarod and flute—gets interrupted by Pico’s voice in
his car. “Yuan, I found the speech you prepared last night. Take a look and
confirm.” Yuan frowns. Nothing should
interrupt a Sufi Raag. His frown disappears soon after. A monk must never
lose control over his emotions. Not even the deaths of thirty-seven
seemingly-pet, rare animals can make him lose it. He skims through the speech
he prepared: … Before the Apocalypse, the system gave us a
goal, forcing us to exhaustion at the end of the day. We had no time to look
inside. The system was a slave-reproduction module where we thought we were
free. With time lost, we lost our only chance of final evolution at the end of
our one life … … The system succeeded, enough to turn talents
into machines, warriors into lazy citizens, knights into faithful slaves,
writers and artists into pets and trophies. They succeeded, and they laughed.
But not after the Apocalypse. Not after the War. We fought. We lost many, but
we won through evolution. Now, things are different. Now things are better … Bullshit!—Yuan stops at this point. Too
many lies! Nothing has changed. Nothing is better. How can a monk with a voice
lie? Moreover, a war hero favoring the Apocalypse—too dark! What was he
thinking last night? “Delete all of it,” he mutters
sternly, and his voice doesn’t have the annoyed tone of impatience. Rather, it’s
the Monk’s grimness on a face handsome with signatures of time. “What should I use for a fake
speech then?” Pico Not-Connected-To-Its-Source says from the car’s speakers. “I gave you the most accurate
Literature Understanding Intelligence,” Yuan says. “That’s for book reviewing and
suggesting you titles, not for making up a fake speech,” Pico protests. “I’m
not connected to—” “Find something from my last
fifty years of speeches. Be useful. Never bother me with Independence-Day speeches
again.” Yuan silences the line. This time his voice sounds a bit cold,
scratching the line of anger. Just a little. Perhaps, the death of thirty-seven
rarest animals on the planet shouldn’t keep you calm after all. Even if they
are ‘not pets’. His car wordlessly drives
itself through the city of Alpha. The sky is visible in the rich areas of the
city—areas where people can afford the airspace above their lands (and they
must be able to afford them to be eligible of living there). Otherwise, the
path is mostly dark until the forest preservation area comes. The Himalayan music in flute
and Sarod—a nineteen-string-instrument—rings in the silence again.
He remembers building Alpha, the first city, formed after World War III. The
city has one motto: WE STAY TOGETHER. They have the motto ever since
the war. But these three words got imprinted in his brain much earlier than
that. How? The Monk doesn’t remember. Yet, at one point, in the very distant
past, these three words became their religion. Their religion, and not his.
The distant past of his was never without that man, the
Mesmerizer. *
* * WHEN YUAN YAGMUR REACHES the busy Central
Alpha, on a highway much closer to the sky, it happens again. This time
he witnesses it: A crow—already dead, cold, and
as unholy as uncontrolled emotions—hits his windshield at bullet speed. Yuan
commands the car abruptly; it stops among the busy traffic. The dead bird
couldn’t break the glass. His car hovers a few inches above the road. The cars
behind him also stop, even though the Aerial Transports (ATs), much above the
intertwined highways, are still flying past them. An AT from the Security and
Law Enforcement Department, SLED, approaches, giving him red signals for
stopping the car in the middle of a highway. Yuan mutters a sixteen-digit
code—a privilege of being a war hero—and he sends it through his CRAB. The SLED
AT leaves, stopping its siren and not disturbing their monk war hero anymore. Privileges exist to be
exploited. The universe provides cheat codes
so they can be used. He unlocked the cheat codes when everyone called him a war
hero. Yuan, exiting the car, takes
the dead crow and carries it to his car’s trunk. He needs to burn it later. The
other vehicles wait behind silently. Everyone worships a war hero in their
hearts, even after five decades. Yuan ignores them. Rotten feather. Dead animals. Dead crow. Is this an omen? A threat? The Monk looks for reasons. In
programs, there are conditions, which the programmer must follow. Otherwise,
the code won’t run. Throwing dead animals is a condition. Some may say it’s a
ritual one needs to complete before the intention installs, before the will sets
… But who is installing intentions? Who wants to program the
universe? Was it him? Most importantly: Bother?
Or not bother? The evening sky is visible
from this level of the highways; it looks as if a storm will soon invade above
a roaring ocean. Ocean—the Monk thinks. There’s no ocean here. Yet, the
more he looks into the sky, he feels himself sinking into the dark that screams
like a storm in some distant, deep water. The water reminds him of that
man. The Mesmerizer. Don’t bother—Yuan, the Monk, decides with a sigh. He swore he
wouldn’t get carried away, no matter how much others try. | 
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