Endogenous schisms, germinating from within our planet, need an exogenous force to assail its malignant metastasis. With this thought in mind, I request you to arrive and take control of the contagion that has rendered sick the wonderful planet I live in. I cannot manage this situation by myself, for the dialectic between the warriors has retrogressed to a level where it is sustained by brute force and mindless violence alone. It does not remain an intellectual wrangle anymore. I require your expertise, to sort this global matter out, once and for all. I am sending you the co-ordinates to my location, although I doubt that you will need it. You will figure the place out – you are an advanced race.
Milo sent his enciphered message to a space beyond cyberspace, hoping it would have its timely engagement with cognitive forces far superior to his. He stretched himself out on his bed, and waited, not anticipating how expeditious the response of the army would be to a breach of the sphere of legal silence enshrouding the planet. He caressed the length of his arm and lightly traced the embossed curve of a button by the cuff, checking, for the last time, if the diminutive recording device grappled onto its back was switched on. The virtual presence of the world ought to dispel the secrecy entailing what could transpire in the next few moments.
The oval door to his home was ferociously swung open, and in came masked men draped in motifs of cryptic colourations. Milo was found in under a minute and slammed against the wooden wall of his beloved room, as framed posters of idyllic heroes slid down to the carpeted floor and lay scrambled with broken glass and punctured fabric.
“Silence breached. Elucidate intent of message.”
Milo smiled, straightening his tie and slipping out of, slackening, the solid grip the soldiers had on his immaculately sculpted face.
“The veritable minds of men are at risk. An infection, cultivated with vitriolic deliberateness by anathemic advocates of death, looms in the form of a phantasmic proposition that regards the nature of metaphysics to be relativistic. The act of treason committed by members of this unreasonable clan has truncated the assertive volitional influence a novice of philosophy once had over the knowledge of the existents around him, and its definitive significations. The ability to know has been sequestered from his mental faculty, and his quest for truth, in all its glorious singularity, has been propagandized against with legerdemain ploys. He is abnegated from dwelling upon any essence of an integrated perfection indurated within his self, and sanctioned entry into a puerile terrain of fluidic identities. The cognitive clockworks of men have been wrenched apart and trampled upon by saturnine agents of skepticism, smearing the mechanical beauty of the springs of curiosity and the gearwheels of perseverance with such thick grease, lubricious with cloying deceit, as to make it irredeemable for generating thoughts of calculated clarity.”
“Enmity triggered from response. Cleanse your speech.”
Milo shuttled between locking his eyes onto seven pairs of his own, reflected from the gently thrumming visors of the beings surrounding him, and continued speaking to the face most worthy of his thoughts.
“With individuals being called upon to prove a negative, and with absence, the lacuna of nullity and that irreproachable void of nothingness, being subject to superimpositions by the most risible of theocratic ideals – so as to render baseless arguments, floundering in the detritus of mystical allegations, in defense of imaginary masters, fortified within a realm that does not exist, credible for the multitudes of slaves garnered with meticulous vice and iniquity through the incarceration of morality within fictional prisons built upon the insecurities of constructed gods, ever staying lost to the lure of languid limbos – hope is a luxury that can no longer honour the providence, offered by cerebral peregrinations, from the primacy of jurisdictional amorality.”
Soldier I-867 thrust his knuckles into the cheekbone of the subject in captivity.
“Insanity needs to be quarantined, with crucial import placed on curing and rehabilitating the insane, irrespective of their professional status, religious fanatics and otherwise. Every man who denies the existence of an objective metaphysics needs to be hunted down and equipped with the straightjacket of rationality. Every man devoted to the fraudulent ritual of accepting alternate untruths on faith needs to be reprimanded and treated with doses of vivacious veracity. Every man who believes needs to be taught the monumental precedence of conviction. Owing to the superlative curative properties of reason and logic, a restorative approach that accosts corrupted minds and ameliorates it to its elemental embryonic essence, with techniques that are homologous with clinical procedures, is the need of the hour.”
“Equable speech expected.”
Soldier I-528 struck his visor against the forehead of the subject in captivity.
“Universities ought to have vaccinated individuals, in preparation against this virulent spread of grotesque abstractions and hypotheses. It ought to have trained students in the habitual effectuation of diagnosing disaccord in their moral hygiene, ontological sterility, and ethical disinfection. It did none of what it ought to have done, thieving from bromidic clusters of pupils their inherent immunity and approbative autonomy. It now ought to help politically cauterize the haemorrhaging potentials of innovative leaps and assist in the birth of a world concretized to the principles of unadulterated objectivity.”
Milo experienced an electrical hiccup. His speech functions had suffered numbing damage from the physical afflictions he was subject to, and was now gradually receding from its operate status.
“A proximity to consciousness that always yearns to aver is advisable,” Milo began, with glaring glitches in the solidarity of what was once a canorous tone.
Soldier I-491 used the sharpened end of his baton to tear open the facial skin of the subject in captivity and discharge the neuronal foam within to a network, overlaid across his face, of doleful trickles.
“The idea of an ideal university now figures in allegorical expressions of art that aim at showcasing the dictatorial capacities our race manages to keep moored out of sight – upon their subliminal ocean of illogic, beyond the obfuscating smogs of unreason, lost temporarily to supine latency, an unknown that yearns to rust itself out and crumble from within, than move ahead to the wake of unrealized ripples, to air less acidic from lies effused out of egos to mask unreality – amidst its misintegrated screeches for absolute freedom and liberty. One ought to ask the liberal cannibals of justice what it is they seek freedom from – from the speech of another that offends their moral premise, or from an enforced rubric for speech codes that engineer their moral premise out for them. To those deranged teachers, who claim that a pursuit for the ideal is futile, as the world has been fractured beyond repair, I would like to say that they are wrong and are siding with evil in its most virile form whenever they disseminate that monstrous view to young scholars. It stands to be observed that a factory that wants to release their chemical waste into rivers can not take as justification the quotidian notion that the water bodies are already polluted, and that their actions would not bring about a difference. There is an effect to every cause; the unique work of every individual being will amount to an unfathomable much.”
Soldier I-200 used his thumb to skewer into the gash previously opened upon the face of the subject in captivity and drill mechanically through the wirings within, eliciting sparks of irate brilliance.
“An apology to the Zelig is due.”
“The zeligs are the ones who enervate the inexpensive spirit I embrace, that of achievement, greatness and happiness. I hereby decree the execution of the dilettantes of governance, the monomaniacs of cynical callousness, and every shameless zelig hiding behind complaisant hirelings who munch on the encomiums channelled into their decaying bodies and carry forth their inscrutable duties of retrograding progress in every field of study.”
Soldier I-904 probed into the eye of the subject in captivity with the blunt end of his baton and tore his face out, leaving a gyrating eyeball hanging from the smashed circuitry of his face, while Soldier I-429 pried open a cloven monolith, held firmly shut in impassive rebellion, that was designed to facilitate articulate speech, and inserted a tablet into the metal opening.
“The Tolerance pill. You no longer have the right, or the volitional capacity, to remain intolerant to any foreign idea or to speak with assurance about a specific issue. Nothing in this world is fixed.”
With what flickering range of vision his one eye could provide, Milo scanned the ghastly embodiments of law assembled around him and sputtered out, with sparks ricocheting off their visors, distilling the frenzied essence of every word, the rest of what he had to say.
“Pharmaceuticals, harbouring members who stay amenable to the whims and rebarbative conceptual fallacies committed by a militia of postmodern men, lest they not violate that right to not be disagreed with of another man, manufacture slipshod concoctions in the name of medicines and subvert money that was once allotted for research – for the purposes of descrying the enigma enshrouded within microscopic hinterlands – into temples of advertising and marketing, where men with no reverence for originality, with arrested perceptual growth, are tamed to strive for remorseful mediocrity while in allegiance to a summative social deity, where selfless conformists work tirelessly to enhance the speciousness of a design adjudged to be unobjectionable by the subaltern members of a community – to let patients swarm better in a pool of aesthetics that gets straitened down to its aggregate best, and die in sympathized agony … ”
Milo could detect the derailment of the progression of his thoughts, the enfeebling of his alacritous disposition, and the effacement of a stable platform of intellect to envisage the future from, one that now seemed so elusive and distant, and the pursuit of which had defined the growing value of his being.
“ … and later, when the tablets and injections are shown to have been unsuccessful in immunizing the country against a dreadful virus, they deem the universe malevolent for its unfair treatment of the humble passengers within, never descanting upon its failure at rationally conceiving a drug of objective value to those men who have grasped the accurate code of ethics epistemologically to thrive on this planet, and have had their love of existence, and their desire to live, as the precondition to every right they have ever exercised.”
Soldier I-706 remained inactive, pleased with the inability of the subject in captivity to allude his opinion to the intended institute, to connect his argument with the problem being problematized. The medicine worked, for it was evident that the subject in captivity was losing his power to coherently communicate his desired thoughts. He was being inebriated with sound codes of conduct to render his insurgence impotent.
“You see, it is a metaphor. A sane being would understand what it is that I am being restrained from verbalizing. They would understand this abrupt dilution of the quality of my abstractness, of my strata of thought.”
Soldier I-867 cuffed the wrists of the subject in captivity and led the tortured contraption out of its abode.
“I refuse to stay clear of the lime bubbles the postmodernists seem to have blown up around everybody. I refuse to abstain from using the sharpness of my brain to burst these sour, inapposite creations of theirs.”
“Your words will make sense to no soul now.”
There was a sudden explosion of light from the sky, and the loose eyeball of the subject in captivity twisted upon its lubricant just in time to focus on the astral miracle he had been waiting for. A ship was descending unto their planet at unfathomable speeds, tearing apart the threadbare fabric of the polluted sky and diving downwards into the intrigued embrace of gravity.
Milo smiled, straining against his rotors to locomote towards where he knew the vessel would land.
Upon touchdown, the soldiers were shot down by the ship, leaving Milo, with his writhing, trembling, and malfunctioning metal frame alone in the glare of the lights that swept upon him from its hull.
A quadrangular door slid open, letting Milo witness, for the first time in the 194 years spent programmed as a teenage android – dreaming of the bionic atlantis of his reveries, and the benevolence of his ideal creator – the silhouette of a proud homo sapien.
The Unconditional Maverick