saac was still parsing the fight with Billy pict by pict as he went to meet Roman for their trip out past the Cinturón.
Roman had spread out McDonalds on the hood of the van, picking fries from the translucent wrapper.
“How can you even eat that? It’s morning.” asked Isaac.
“Good morning to you, too!” said Roman, sucking from a drink straw. “As it turns out, my noob, the Mind must find a limbic hook for all of us. And because I find the lucids unconvincing, this is mine. Among other predelictions. Those of us who are more or less conscious of the Mind working must choose the pleasures it offers in order to be formed by it. This, I have no problem choosing,” he said, dipping a fry in ketchup and holding it in front of his face like a bloody finger.
Isaac grunted, absorbing that information. “So is that why you’re so…” he trailed off, not wanting to say something insulting.
“Perfectly balanced, off-balance?” He pulled himself up on one tiptoe like a ballerina, arms lifted to heaven, the half-finished hamburger in one hand the drink in the other.
Isaac laughed in spite of himself, “Yeah. Exactly,” he said.
“Indeed. Let’s roll. No time to lose,” said Roman, tearing open a moist towellette and carefully wiping off his hands. He tossed it onto the paper with the quarter burger and the remnants of his fries, wrapping the whole thing up and tossing it onto the pavement.
“A tithe for dogs and janitors,” said Roman, grandly sweeping his hands. He opened the door. Isaac shook his head and climbed into the van.
As Roman entered the flow of traffic, Isaac stared out the window at his school. He didn’t even care where they were going, even though the Mind was pulling at him like pictures of puppies. Burn the puppies, he thought, picturing flames hot enough to incinerate the school’s bricks.
“So, my chickadee. You seem distraught. What could be the matter? Has not the Mind soothed away your anxieties, or are you too badly split for that?” he asked.
Isaac looked over at him in surprise.
“Well of course we all know you’re splitting. That’s why I’m caring for you, my poor little duckling,” said Roman, looking over at him.
“So what ruffles you? Come on, you can tell Roman,” he said, making eye contact.
Isaac looked away toward the floor, then out the window, “Have you ever… like, had a friend that you figured out was a huge asshole?” he asked.
Roman nodded knowingly, changing lanes suddenly on the thickway and causing all the Mindcars to scatter like diverted water.
“Of course. It is the nature of people to be huge assholes,” said Roman.
“Okay, but like, why does the Mind let them?” asked Isaac.
Roman sighed, “My dear little duck. The Mind is there to fit us to the world, not change our essence. The will cannot be suborned, it may only be gradually eroded from beneath. Those that desire to be good are empowered to do it, and those that do not… well, they are free so long as they don’t damage the rest of us. The Mind uses their drives and desires to soothe and calm their brains so that in life they are perfect nodes on the Mindnet, and in death, their desire fits perfectly to the pleasure-streams of paradise.”
“Mmm. Paradise. Is that the dustfields?” Isaac emphasized the word with metemotional cynicism.
“That, my chick, was the infrastructural decadence of another era for which we pay while the Mind seeks answers in science. We are cautiously re-hydrating the dustlands, replanting trees as we can afford,” Roman said.
“And perhaps your little question-mind is considering other crops for our desiccated fields. Don’t imagine we cannot grow anything less than corn and soy for our population without imports. Human machines are less hungry than machines of metal, but they too must be fed. We must look to now, to the growth of the GDP, to the machines of war. Do you know, even the fractious political parties of the 21st century agreed on this? The Mind is that system given thought—it merely carries forth the consensus of humanity. For it is us, our dream machine,” said Roman.
“Some fucking dreams,” said Isaac.
Roman laughed, “Yes, my noob. Some ‘fucking’ dreams. For at the center of us is a candy-coated reptile brain. And that brain wants to fuck and fight, consume and dominate. Read… or no, watch, of the excesses of the 21st century,” Roman said.
“You will see that what history offers us is merely the dominance of our mammalian brain sheathed in great economic rationalities—numbers and speeches—while we devour the earth like a plague of locusts, each locust driven by the simple logics of the eating game to devour more than his fellow,” Roman said.
“Separate, tiny insect minds with only the barest hint of central control. Neither politics, nor religion, nor science were powerful enough so long as we played the consumption game, even religions of altruism and love, sciences of rational self-interest, and inclusion politics of ‘the other.’ Query it and then come back to Roman, my lost little lambkin,” he said.
Isaac shook his head, exasperated.
He continued, “I’m sorry, my chickadee. But if you are a utilitarian, if you believe in the greatest possible happiness for the greatest number of people, then we have far surpassed any period in history. And it is our manifest destiny to conquer the rest of the world and bring them into the Mindnet. Think of what we would do with the Amazon’s oil reserves! Or with the scientific minds of the European Union! But until then we must war, and we cannot afford the luxury of inefficiencies,” Roman lapsed into silence, mulling over his words.
Isaac sat in silence and queried nothing but his own thoughts. He knew what he would find on the Mindnet. His school and the newsfeeds had reinforced everything Roman had told him, albeit with less panache.
But the best lie was constructed mostly of truth. Had the Mind truly taken the harsh edge off of 21st century capitalism?
To Isaac, at times it seemed almost that the Mind was simply consumption-driven capitalism taken up residence directly in the upper brainstem.
A hundred years ago, advertising mapped the eyes, the gateway to desire, for the free market’s dream machine: colonizing the secondary visual cortex. So how was the devouring bigMind of today any different from the devouring locust-monads of yesterday?
And could he trust Roman, or had Roman, too, been bought by his own desires: another mouthpiece for the great desire-machine?
And so they drove ahead, Roman humming along to the classical music of his inphones, Isaac lost in thought, until Roman pulled up to park, and snapped Isaac from his reverie.
“Who are we meeting today?” he asked.
“Pablo. Speaking of master narratives, he has something to tell us of religion! Such a delightfully baroque harness for the limbic core. Oh, I do hope this one involves a transparent theological projection! One can map so much of the self-labyrinth from the God-image. God says this! God says that! Delightful outsourcing of the brain’s executive function. Outwards and onwards, my noob!” he said, unbuckling his seat belt and popping open his door.