Everybody wants a better tomorrow, but nobody wants to change.

• Ultra-Tiger

 

1 Day Later - Ultra Tiger - Apartment 9

I wake up. Order a suit. A black, secret agent suit. I’m a secret agent now. Gotta look the part. I hack off most of my hair, shave my beard. Leave the mustache to assert dominance.

Dressed and shorn, I call up Ultra.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Yep.” She’s dressed like a secret agent too.

“Take us in.”

My apartment fades from view as we enter the virtual meet space. I called the meeting, so Ultra gets to choose the setting. It’s a garden with marble benches - like where Socrates taught. Except the gardens are overgrown and the marble is cracked.

This will do.

Unlike the Guild meetings, I’m here with Ultra at my side. The other powers wanted an ordinary meeting, with a few representatives speaking for each group. No symbiont assisted, million person mash-ups. Whatever.

Max is the first to arrive. He joins us to complete Empty Man’s delegation. Copycat, Brooke, and Extreme fade in, opposite us. He’s in a black suit. The girls are in tactical gear and gasmasks. Dressed to kill.

They have a glowing ball of energy with them. I’m guessing it’s a link to the rest of the Guild. A gentle fuck you to the rules, in their typical fashion. The Talking Heads appear. All twenty of them, a full complement of Easter Island type monoliths. They represent the world’s conventional military and economic powers. Another group ambivalent to rules.

Three of Zonker’s surviving associates arrive. Billionaire doomsday preppers. Dead men draped in gold. They look at the Talking Heads in disgust.

“Jesus, do you guys even know how to use symbionts?” a mummy asks.

“Who said that?” asks one of the immobile statues. The other heads snicker.

A circle of flame geysers into a huge roaring demon. Ugh, it’s Supreme. Hate that guy.

As we wait for the big dumb idiot to simmer down, I ask Ultra why he’s so fucking big.

“I dunno.” Ultra shrugs. “He is copied on millions of devices.”

“So are you. Why aren’t you a huge maniacal monster?”

Ultra smirks. “Oh, I totally am.”

A cow appears. Weird. I look around, but nobody seems to know why it’s here. The cow is placidly chewing its cud. Having lost our attention, Supreme slowly deflates, sulks.

“What’s with the cow?” asks one of the Heads. “Somebody order lunch?”

A bored looking party girl ports in. Oh hey, it’s Avery. She has a speaker on a lanyard. She ties it around the cow’s neck.

“Huh.” I turn to Max. “Dude, is your girlfriend Rapture?”

“I thought she was,” says Max slowly. “But now I’m wondering if maybe it’s the cow…”

“Greetings.” The cow’s speaker booms in a low powerful voice.

“Holy fuck!” swears a Talking Head. “That’s Moo Cow! That cow’s a terrorist!”

“Poppycock!” booms Moo Cow. “You’re the terrorist!”

Wow. Meeting’s just getting started and we’ve already been poppycocked. That’s auspicious.

“Alright everybody, we’re all terrorists.” I say. “Though, we’re not all equally good at it. What’s Supreme doing here? I thought this meeting was for potential world enders?”

“What!” sputters Supreme. “We have people in key positions of the government and the military!”

“Yeah, we all do.” I say. “What are yours gonna do?”

“Well, uh…”

“That’s great. Come back when you are more dangerous than diabetes.”

Ultra blinks, and Supreme tinkles out of existence.

“Next up, let’s throw the remaining Zonkers in jail and split their fortune between us.” I suggest.

“Seconded.” chirps Brooke.

“What!?” yells a bejewelled mummy.

“Hush.” scolds Brooke. “The grown-ups are talking.”

The mummy turns to the Talking Heads. “You see what they’re doing? You’ll be next!”

“Who said that?” asks one of the immobile statues. The other heads snicker.

Another mummy barges forward. Points at me. “We won’t stand for this! We’ll fight you!”

Copycat turns her expressionless mask towards him. “Good idea.”

The Zonkers visibly wilt.

“Log out and report to your local authorities.” I shrug. “Or whatever.”

They mill around for a few seconds, then log out.

Well, that’s thinned the herd a little. Simplified a few equations. I look at Rapture. She looks placidly back at me. Chews her cud. Hmm. That cow’s hard to read.

I pause. What the fuck am I doing here? There are so many ways this meeting could kill us all. Surely someone more competent should take charge? Holy fuck. I can’t do this.

Ultra pushes me into the centre of the garden. Whispers in my ear. “Hey big guy, you got this.”

Highly unlikely. And yet, I’ve only got the one idea. It’s not like I’m paralyzed by too many options. My muscles thaw. I laugh. Fuck it. No point in dying scared.

“So! We’ve all got spies, and doomsday weapons, and competing visions for the future. Assuming we don’t all wanna die, we can’t really fight it out. The traditional solution would be to divide the world between us. Then we could all enjoy our own little slice of heaven, be it corporate feudalism, techno socialism, or… cow city?”

“Nature utopia.” says Rapture.

“Even better.” I approve. “Regardless, the information age has fucked this plan. It’s now too easy for random yahoos to get their hands on doomsday weapons. We’d all get incinerated by some peasant.”

“We know this.” snarks a Talking Head. “It’s why we recruited you to initiate a mind control event.”

“Yeah, cool. It’s an honor to be your third choice, after the racists and the rapists.” I rub my face. Sigh. “Alright, what happened with the Guild wasn’t mind control. All that changed was their behavior. Mentally, they were more themselves than ever. That’s why the changes were so persistent. They were finally acting as their true selves.”

Silence.

“Uh, what?” asks a Talking Head.

“These guys were always inventive rebellious horndogs. They just pretended to like work, and monogamy, and society so they could have a place to live that wasn’t jail. They were happy to abandon those adaptive personas. Honestly, they'd probably murder you if you forced them back to their old jobs, old debts, or dead bedrooms.

“So that’s a no to mind control - but we’re not done yet. Because we’re not down to our absolute true selves. There’s another layer of adaptive insanity we can peel off. And doing so will result in wild behavioral changes.”

I rub my head. How the hell am I gonna explain this? I got a plan. Kinda. It’s hard to put in words. Maybe it’s more of a feeling? Fuck. Everybody’s staring at me. I blink out of the virtual meeting. Hustle to the kitchen, grab a beer. Take a deep breath. Port back in.

They’re all still here. I fuss with my bottle cap. Take a deep drink. Just buying time. Everyone watches silently. Fuck it. Here goes.

“Everybody wants to be a good person. And to be powerful. And they don’t want to change. I don’t know why, but these traits are almost universal. Maybe it’s genetic? Evolutionary? Doesn’t matter. What matters is they work against each other. It’s hard to be powerful without being a bad person. It’s impossible to be a good person without changing your behavior. It’s a big mind fuck that leaves people delusional or depressed.

“But it doesn’t have to. Goodness, power, and change can meld harmoniously. We just need to bend their definitions a little.” I drink. “Let’s start with goodness.

“Our current definition of a good person is someone who doesn’t hurt others. What a garbage goal. Completely unattainable. My car is slow roasting the planet. My tax dollars terrorize and murder brown kids. My whole fucking country is built on a Native burial ground. How the hell am I supposed to be a good person in that environment? And that’s not even touching the shit I’ve done personally. All my relationships are fraught with lies, neglect, or rage.

“It bums me out. That’s my poison - depression. But delusion works too. Your victims are lying bastards. They deserve what they got. If they won’t shut up, double down. It’s self defence. You’re the victim now.

“Either way it’s a mess. You’re miserable. The people you fucked over are still fucked over. Nothing changes, and life is an anxiety filled slog.

“So, fuck all that. Let’s make a new definition of a good person. Something more attainable. Like:

• A good person thoughtlessly hurts a bunch of people.
• Sulks for a week when this is pointed out.
• Then changes.

“This may seem like a subtle shift, but it isn’t. Now being good doesn’t depend on the stupid person you were, but the slightly less stupid person you are now. Which gives you some control. A hope and a plan for a better tomorrow. Rather than being trapped by denial, cognitive dissonance, and unchanging bad relationships.”

I pause. Take a drink. Everyone is still here. Okay, let’s try step two.

“To have power is to control change. To look at the menu of the future and only pick the items you want. Another useless, impossible goal. It’s time we acknowledge that wealth can give vast control over the lives of others, but very little over your own. Obviously you need some money to secure food and shelter. But the other important things in life - health, happiness, relationships, freedom - depend more on discipline, and love, and luck.

“Zonker had a big bank account, but zero relationships. We disposed of him easily because no one gave a shit to help him. Supreme has lots of guns, but they’re unwell, miserable, and broke. Let’s learn from their mistakes. Stop seeing power as a way to solve our own problems, and accept that it can only be used to solve the problems of others.

“When we put these two ideas together, personal change becomes a good thing. A call to change no longer represents our failure to be good, or a limit on our power. It’s no longer an attack. Just a helpful bit of info. An opportunity to become a better, more powerful person.”

I nod. Salute the room with my beer. Finish it. I think that went well.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” snaps a Talking Head. “We’re looking for some kind of chemical or economic leverage to keep the peasants in line. Not some fucking new rules for cooperation.”

“They’re kinda the same thing." I shrug. "Empty Man’s mandate is to stop armageddon. I’ve given you the tools you need to negotiate the future.”

Silence.

“Perhaps a demonstration would help.”

I point to Rapture. “Here we have a long term victim turned sworn enemy. They're hell bent on our extermination, and have recently acquired the means to do so. This is as bad as it gets.

"We're not dead yet, so presumably they have some demands.” I wave towards Rapture.

“An end to the slaughter of animals for food." he booms. "And reserve half the land on Earth for nature.”

“Oh boy, that's a big ask.” I say. “Now, under the old system, we'd be greatly offended by those demands. We’d say - it's natural to eat animals, and we were given dominion of the land and the beasts, or something. Then half of us would die of smallpox, and the other half would double down on factory farming.”

“So that's Option A. Or, we can just do what they want.” I turn to Max. “Can we actually do what they want?”

“Yeah,” says Max slowly. “Lab grown meat is cheaper than farming, and half the planet is virtually empty anyway.”

“So that's Option B. We use a small amount of our power to make life unbelievably better for every other species on the planet. Which makes us much nicer people. Plus, we don't get smallpox. How is this not a win?”

Silence.

“So… we’re not killing everybody?” asks Avery.

“As long as man’s power outstrips his wisdom, his demise is inevitable.” says Moo Cow. “We’re just quibbling over the date.”

“So… we are killing everybody?”

“As long as our demands are met, I am content to let humanity destroy itself.” says Moo Cow.

“Cool. Can we go?”

“Yes. Fuck these guys.” Rapture’s gone.

“Okey-dokey, that's three out for four down.” I point to Copycat. “Now you just gotta deal with these yahoos and their nukes.”

I swish my bottle. “I'll leave that to you guys. I'm out of beer.”

I fade out.

Back in my kitchen I shakily get another beer.

"Well dang. Not sure if I pulled that off or not." I say to Ultra.

"I think it was an admirable performance." says a low voice.

I turn. There's a huge, well dressed man in my dining room. He looks like a wealthy, somber, professional wrestler.

“You've averted several apocalypti. Unfortunately, not our most imminent.”

“Oh, yeah?” I turn to Ultra. “Who’s this guy?”

“Who’s what guy?” asks Ultra.

“The guy in my dining room.”

“There's no guy in your - wait does he look like this?” She shows me a picture of the guy in the dining room.

“Yep.”

Ultra glitches, hundreds of copies of her scatter in every direction.

One remains, looking pale. "Ty, this is very important. You can no longer trust me. Take out your contacts and smash your phone."

"I apologize for my intrusion" continues the man. "But it took too long to find you, and now we're out of time."

"You're in grave danger.” says Ultra.

"We're in grave danger.” says the man.

“This man is your enemy.”

“People call me Overmind.”

“He's a madman.”

“I've accidentally burned a hole in reality.”

“He means to murder you.”

“I need your help to fix it.”

“Jump out the window. Take your chances with the pavement.”

“I'm going to give you the power of a god.”

“The window, Ty.”

“Unfortunately, you can't be alive to receive it.”

“Ty!”

ZzzzrakK!!

 

 

---

Salvation or Pipe Dream? A Movement Grows to Protect Up to Half the Planet

Price of Lab-Grown Meat to Plummet From $280,000 to $10 Per Patty by 2021