John Krygelski - The Aegis Solution

“So that makes us a couple of fools who can’t deal with the fact that society has passed us by, doesn’t it?”

“No. It doesn’t.”

Wilson chuckled. “Of course you’d say that, Mr. Death. Fools and crazy people always think they’re fine. It’s always everybody else who’s gone ’round the bend.”

Twisting around in his seat to face his host, Elias asked, “What’s with this ‘Mr. Death’ thing? Why are you calling me that?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not.”

“You don’t know the historical significance of your own name?”

“Charon? The guide from the river Styx taking the souls across the river?”

“Yeah,” Wilson said, still smiling. “But either your parents had no knowledge of history and just liked the name, or they had a wicked sense of humor when they tagged you with Elias to go in front of it.”

“Saint Elias the Living?”

“See, you did know! Some believed that Elias was the only saint who didn’t die. He hopped on his fiery chariot and rode it to Heaven, body and all. Don’t ya think that’s a bit of an ironic name for someone waltzing into this institution, which is nothing but a spit in the face of death?”

“Hadn’t given it any thought.”

Wilson snorted his opinion and said nothing. They both fell into a brief silence, listening to the whirl of the wind. After a few minutes, Wilson began speaking, his voice so low Elias had to strain to hear his words. “All this stuff… the names, songs, photographs, movies, and TV shows… if it were merely the logical progression of things, it wouldn’t bother me so much.”

“What do you mean?” Elias asked, caught up in the old man’s sudden change of mood, realizing that the man he had been chatting with on the porch, until this minute, was a manufactured caricature, and the true person was now revealing himself.

Wilson hesitated once again, and Elias suspected that he was not merely formulating his thoughts, but rather was deciding whether to share them with a stranger. With a deep intake of breath, he indicated the decision had been made. “What do you think I did for a living, before I retired… before I checked in to this looney bin?”

“I have no idea, Wilson. How would I? We just met.”

Elias’ companion stared intently at him, his gray eyes penetrating deeply. “You’re a smart man, Mr. Charon. Very smart. I have a feeling that you’ve made a career out of reading people. When you read me, what do you see?”

Throughout his career, Elias had long ago recognized that there were frequently points in any cover where you had to decide whether to stick with your story or shift gears. Sometimes clinging to your original cover was the best option, regardless of how absurd the act of maintaining it became. At other times, abandoning the pretext, and either adopting another or simply coming clean about who you were, made the most sense, even if the motivation to do so was apparently weak. Occasionally, breaking cover was the appropriate thing to do for purely utilitarian reasons. Elias decided this was one of those times.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged in. “Wilson isn’t your real name.” Elias paused for a moment to watch for a reaction to his comment. There was none, so he continued, “I’m not exactly certain what you did, but you are well educated, extremely so. My guess would be the sciences.”

Again no reaction other than a very slight, wry grin.

“You were successful in what you did. Probably made quite a name for yourself. And you were used to having a lot of people and resources at your disposal. You liked to solve problems but became bored with the day-to-day running of things, and you’ve developed quite a contempt for humanity.”

The subtle grin filled out into a full smile. “Not bad, Elias. Not bad at all.”

“Are you going to tell me who you are?”

“Not are, were.”

It was Elias’ turn to smile. “Okay, who were you?”

“John Wilson Chapman.”

The moment he heard the name, Elias recognized his features. The entire biography of the man tumbled into his mind. John Wilson Chapman, thirty years ago, had been at the top of his field in mathematics. In addition, he had won a Nobel Prize for his work in the area of pattern recognition, and he had been the leading and, at times, vicious opponent of Chaos Theory, believing and maintaining at every opportunity that Chaos Theory was nothing but the scientific community putting a fancy title on the fact that they did not understand something.

He became quickly renowned for discerning the most esoteric and subtle patterns in areas theretofore considered to be too chaotic to predict. Whether it was the stock market, Internet routing, ocean currents, turbulence within the human heart, or the weather, he seemed to relish the chance to unravel the apparently hopeless, tangled balls of yarn in a variety of fields and disciplines. As a result he became both famous and wealthy, only to gradually recede from the public view and consciousness.

Elias stuck out his hand and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Wilson accepted the handshake. “Of course, the normal turn of the conversation would be for me to inquire and for you to supply your identity to me. But I am not quite certain that you have reached the point with me where you would be completely forthright in your answer, and I am enjoying this chat too much for it to be spoiled by dissembling.”

Elias only grinned, saying nothing.

With a soft sigh, Wilson continued, “All in good time, I suppose. But to continue my thought, when I first began to notice all of the changes in society against which I have been railing, I chalked them off as the normal evolution of technology, à lá Alvin Toffler. But over time, as I observed and, in many cases, facilitated these so-called advances, I began to feel differently.”

“How so?”

Wilson’s eyes once again swung away from Elias and stared out into the jumble of foliage. “Why do you think I’ve created this environment for myself?”

Elias shrugged. “Trying to recreate some childhood setting?”

Wilson laughed. “No, hardly that. I was raised in Las Cruces. It’s literally the way my mind has always worked. From a very young age I was fascinated with patterns. I remember, as a boy, sitting for hours watching the apparently random ramblings of ants around their hill, until I was able to discern the subtle plan behind their routes and movements. I wasn’t happy until I could accurately predict what they would do next. The same was true with everything around me, so much so that I never married.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t? It’s simple, really. Even as a teenaged, hormone-driven boy, I studied the dating and mating patterns of all of the boys and girls around me in high school, until the dependable chain of cause-and-effect actions became clear. The unfortunate by-product of this was that I developed a feeling for females that was anything but conducive for romance, love, and marriage.”

“Contempt?”

“No. Let’s call it a distaste for the process. This process, like everything else, has been devalued. I found females to be far too predictable, too easy to manipulate. Not that I intend for that comment to sound as chauvinistic as it does. My comments apply to males, as well. Regrettably, I found it difficult to find a woman I could view as my equal, my partner.”

“I think I understand.”

“I’m sure you do. But to continue, I never developed an aversion to patterns. Instead I craved them. I sought out more and more complex sets of variables merely to satisfy my curiosity.”

“So the jungle you’ve created around you here is a challenge?”

Rolling his eyes dismissively, Wilson replied, “No, not a challenge. But it is something, as opposed to a void. At least the plants grow and change and interact and die and give birth. At least there is a relatively complex system which, most important, is ever-changing.”