GMO's

Here' my latest version...

A VERY COMMON QUESTION WE GET THESE DAYS:  SINCE YOU ARE A GRASS-BASED, FAMILY FARM CONCERNED ABOUT ENVIRONMENTAL AND HEALTH ISSUES, WHY DON’T WE USE NON-GMO GRAIN?

Short answer:  First and foremost, we want to support our local mill and surrounding grain producers.  Second, non-GMO is not always an environmentally responsible option.  Not only does non-local carry a greater fossil fuel dependency, many non-GMO grains are grown with a higher quantity or more potent pesticides and herbicides than GMO grain.  Third, non-GMO can be price-prohibitive.  The Organic option, which ensures a level of environmentally responsible methods as well as a non-GMO product, is often twice, if not three times, as expensive.  Organic grain is not local and some of it is supplied from as far away as China.  (story: imported grain)  Since non-GMO grain would have to be delivered in bulk, we would have to invest in some serious storage infrastructure, which would not only be a huge upfront cost for us, but would end up sacrificing a significant amount of quality, which would in turn not provide our animals with optimum nutrition.  This is due to the simple fact that once grains are milled their nutrition quality quickly deteriorates as it sits around waiting to be used.  Fourth, while the research pointing to negative health aspects of GMO has been slow to gain credible consensus, we are much more convinced of the detrimental aspects of routine antibiotics and non-fish animal by-products in our feed, as well as the positive benefits of outdoor grass-based systems.  With this in mind, we are not willing to sacrifice local infrastructure or environmental responsibility while hiking our prices for an issue that is not our top priority.

THE ISSUE OF GMO FEED IN MORE DEPTH:

Although our feed is freshly milled and free from any sort of medication, it is not GMO free.  We feel this is the best option for our farm for issues of distance, price, storage, local economy, and other complicating factors.  Though this explanation is quite lengthy, there is a flow of thought from start to finish.  The following headings are linked to different sections for quicker viewing.

INTRO

GRAIN VS. VEGETABLES:  a sack of potatoes ≠ a sack of wheat

LOCAL SOURCE: how local is local?

A TRUE ALTERNATIVE?   green-washing the non-GMO

‘SUPER ORGANISMS’ & GMOs:  Nature's response

A TALE OF TWO SYSTEMS

                 a.  THE AGRO-INDUSTRIAL-COMPLEX

                 b.  AGRICULTURAL TRANSFORMATION

THE CONSUMER'S HEALTH

CONCLUSION

LIST OF FEED OPTIONS (including what ideal feed-grain operation might look like)

INTRO  

                The issue of Genetically Modified Organisms (GMO’s) has come a long way from its beginnings some 20 years ago.  Today all corn and soy used for animal feed, unless otherwise stated, is nearly guaranteed to be genetically modified.  It has taken decades, but we now see a huge rise in concern over the use of GMO’s.  We at WT Farm like the fact that we are taken to task by our customers about our use of regular feed for our animals.  People are growing concerned about what they put in their bodies as well as the effect such food has on environment, economy and even gastronomy.  However, the GMO issue is quite complicated and is not a separate issue to be addressed in a vacuum.  Every year at the farm we revisit the GMO issue and debate the pros and cons among ourselves, so we thought it worthwhile to write up some of our thoughts, both as an explanation for our decision as well as an opportunity to give some framework and context to the issue in relation to animal husbandry as we see it.

GRAIN VS. VEGETABLES:  a sack of potatoes ≠ a sack of wheat

                To begin with, I want to stress that growing grain is a very different sort of process and operation from growing vegetables and fruit, especially as you try and scale it down for local use.  One can grow vegetables intensively on a small amount of acreage, and, with excellent management and a commitment to sustainable practices, can produce not only a significant quantity, but a significant variety of produce of the highest quality.  To meet the enormous quantities of grain that animals such as chickens consume, the scale of any operation that could actually make any sort of profit has to be a great deal larger and would require vast amounts of land, machinery, financial resources, and expertise.  At this point in time, in contrast to corn and soy, the vast majority of vegetables are not genetically modified.  Consequently to make the pledge to grow and sell non-GMO squash is a very different and a much more easily attained goal than to make the same claim for eggs or meat.

LOCAL SOURCE:  how local is local?

                Our closest sources for non-GMO feed that might possibly have the quantities we would need for our animals are presently between 100-150 miles away.  Much of their grain will also be from additional distances, predominantly from Pennsylvania.  Immediately, the definition of local comes into play.  One element of stressing local is to address our culture’s addiction to oil.  With conventional food having, on average, traveled thousands of miles to get to our plates, central Virginia and Pennsylvania are definitely an improvement.  However, just a 20 mile drive from our farm is a family owned mill, one of the last remnants of local infrastructure supporting agriculture in the surrounding areas.  Not only do we highly value the very personal connection we have with those that run Big Spring Mill, but they keep alive the dwindling grain growers in the area.  Local soy is not an option as it is not grown in this region, but the mill is able to source at least 50% of their corn from farms within a 100 mile radius.  When dealing with thousands of tons, this is an impressive contribution to the local economy.  To make up the rest of their grain needs, Big Spring Mill does buy grain from as far as the Midwest and they make no distinction between non-GMO and GMO, mixing all their grain together.  While this may deter some from buying their product, the local contribution they make to agriculture seems invaluable to us and is the single most important reason we are not willing to make the switch.

A TRUE ALTERNATIVE?  green-washing the non-GMO

                There are other reasons beyond the local issue that also give us pause in the GMO debate.  Some of these relate back to the scale of grain growing that I mentioned earlier.  The present public outcry against GMO’s has created a growing demand that is outpacing the supply within the marketplace, but the scale and equipment it takes to grow grain in any significant quantity means that those who are already set up to grow grain are the ones who are in the easiest position to meet this demand.  While a demand for organic, non-GMO local vegetables can be relatively quickly provided by small farms, even ones that are starting up with minimal infrastructure, the same is not true for grains.  This means that it is often the case that the farmers growing non-GMO grain are the same conventional GMO grain producers who have set apart a portion of their land to be designated for the non-GMO market; this is known as a split operation.  (Split operations are also common among large-scale Organic operations.)  Whereas the Organic label requires the use of non-GMO seed, there is no requirement for conventional non-GMO grain to follow any sort of organic protocol if it is not labeled as such.  This is significant, not because we hold a grudge against such producers, but because such growers have a mindset and methods of growing food that do not share the values that are important to us as people involved in the sustainable movement.  These days, ‘non-GMO’ being a byword, the average consumer assumes the label is accompanied by less pesticide, less herbicide, less synthetic fertilizer, seeds from a non-Monsanto source, and all around a more organic approach.  However, unless the product is accompanied by the Organic label or you are personally familiar with the grain grower, there is absolutely no guarantee that any of this is true.  This is a classic case of separating an issue within a vacuum.  In fact, it may even be true that some of the practices by non-GMO growers are more detrimental to the environment than the regular GMO grain growers.  Whereas there is a growing general hatred towards the Monsanto’s herbicide Roundup, which is used in tangent with the genetically modified crops labeled Roundup Ready, it is not the most environmentally destructive herbicide in and of itself.  As it has been explained to me, Roundup, an herbicide in the class of glyphosate, has relatively little direct soil activity and only kills any foliage above ground that has not been genetically modified to resist Roundup. Clearly no herbicide is benign, even to the soil, but we cannot forget that many of the older, more conventional herbicides were even more poisonous, directly killing bugs and seeds and the entire ecosystem below as well as above the soil in a nice euphemism called sterilization.  This was one of the reasons why Roundup was originally touted as environmentally friendly.  It’s all about what you are comparing yourself to.  Even when claims are made concerning more pesticides being used, it is important to know if we are comparing glyphosate (foliage only) poisons or atrazine (soil sterilizing) poisons, or any of the other many categories.  There is no question that there are detrimental environmental effects from the ubiquitous and constant use of glyphosate, but when weighing the options and operating in the real world, we are reduced to choosing the lesser of evils.  

‘SUPER ORGANISMS’ & GMOs:  Nature's response

                The quantity of herbicides and pesticides used leads right into the issue of ‘superbugs’ and ‘super-weeds’.  I believe it is important to remind people that genetically modifying plants themselves is not what leads to resistant bugs and weeds.  What leads to epidemics of resistance is the method of growing grain, which requires mass amounts of poisons as well as fertilizers.  It is because the Roundup system worked well that it quickly became the standard and has been used in unprecedented quantities across the country.  I am not an expert, but I believe that any poison used so prolifically and repeatedly, without discretion, would result in resistant organisms.  It is simply a response of Nature to the modern methods of agriculture, not a unique trait of GMO’s.  So what I find lacking in a simplistic approach to the issues, is that a demand for non-GMO grain without a demand to change the methods, is not much of a gain, and in fact can blind us to other sustainability issues that can be just as, or at times even more important, than genetic modification.  If nothing else, I hope I can get across that the issue is not quite as clear-cut as some may have us believe.   

A TALE OF TWO SYSTEMS:

a.  THE AGRO-INDUSTRIAL-COMPLEX

                I find it an interesting cultural phenomenon that GMO’s are where ‘green’ proponents seem to be drawing the line.  A nerve has been struck and the emotional fervor invested in the issue has taken me by surprise.  What does not take me by surprise is the development of GMO crops and the fact that multinational companies and government regulation agencies are willing to ‘experiment’ on a vast population with minimal thought to ‘safety’.  Since WWII we have been dumping chemicals into our ecosystem at unprecedented rates.  Sure, we no longer spray DDT in our streets, but there are thousands of unregulated or poorly regulated chemicals (many of them much more potent than glyphosate) not only in our food and our soil, but polluting our air and water as well.  Has not this disregard for health and nature, in the form of ‘experiments’, been the norm?  And it is not just agriculture.  There are systemic issues revolving around plastic, carbon emission, rare minerals used in our cell phones, mountaintop removal, and a whole host of other issues that enrich a relatively few at the expense of both other people and nature herself.  In light of all this, GMOs are the logical icing on the agro-industrial-complex cake; a small cog that fits perfectly in the agendas of multinational corporations whose goal is to make money while giving little thought to the destruction of the environment, the health of the consumer, or how their unconstitutional claim to intellectual property of life disempowers farmers as well as entire populations overseas who have less means to fight the agro-industrial-complex than we do here in America.  What I am getting at is that I don’t see the strategic advantage of making GMO’s the single most important litmus test when it is only a relatively small part of a large system.  Even if GMO’s were banned, the multinational corporations would quickly adapt and their systems would be fully intact maintaining their monopoly infamous for their disregard of the environment, health of the consumer, and disenfranchisement of farmers. 

                b.  AGRICULTURAL TRANSFORMATION

                The existing system may have its catastrophic faults, but it is the system in place and consequently feeds the vast, vast majority of our population.  While it is imperative to build an alternative system, the task is quite daunting.  Even without the pressure of impending environment, economic, and social disasters, the task of constructing a food system that can compete with the present one shored up by decades of government subsidies and corporate success, borders on the impossible.   Too few people realize the extent of scale needed for sustainable agriculture to be a viable alternative, and just as few feel the urgency.  Such exponential growth as needed, coupled with the time factor of impending energy crises, vital resource crises, and global warming crises, makes it impossible for a young agricultural alternative system to meet everyone’s criteria of an environmentally and socially responsible system.  How does one maintain integrity in the face of such tensions?  As I see it, integrity is upheld by understanding that an agricultural endeavor is more than just a sum of its parts; more than just a sum of its issues.  Part of a sustainable system’s distinction, is the acknowledgement of viewing the system as a web of interrelating parts that work synergistically and which are difficult to separate into different, individual categories.  For a grass-based operation, the pasture is the center ‘hub’ of the web.  This is our energy source; one of nature’s solar panels, whose long term efficiency should be a model for us as a society.  Around this hub we literally rotate our animals.  Feed-wise, some of our animals, like chickens, only get a portion of their needs from the grass and bugs, while others, namely ruminants, can be 100% grass-fed.  However, figuratively, the hub is surrounded by other strands of the web: environment issues, energy issues, health issues, local economic issues, animal welfare issues, farmer welfare issues, as well as health and gastronomic issues.  And while a grass-based system makes huge leaps towards a more socially and environmentally responsible system, we the farmers, are the first to say that our system is far from perfect.  Such an alternative system is a constant diplomatic give and take of literally hundreds of issues all trying to settle into place to keep the farm an intact and living whole.  We have issues of breeds and genetic diversity, distance, feed quality, infrastructure, scale, to name just a few—all being juggled against our need to be financially viable in order to continue farming. 

                So when the issue of GMO’s is addressed, we can’t simply say GMO=bad therefore take it out of our system.  Any addition or change to the system, especially one so difficult to attain, is going to occupy a very distinct space within the ‘web’ of our farm, and potentially shove others out.  So if we see that incorporating non-GMO’s into our operation is going to raise prices significantly as well as negatively impacting the local infrastructure so dear to us, we must weigh the options.  And when you factor in that non-GMO grain is often raised on operations that are not very different from the status quo, this gives us even further pause.  The next time you buy meat or eggs from a farm feeding non-GMO feed, do yourself a favor and ask the farmer if they know what kind of system the grain was raised in.  What types of herbicides and pesticides were used?  Where was the seed originally bought?  Is the grain grown as a mono-crop, or do the farmers practice crop rotation as well as animal grazing on their fields?  Are synthetic fertilizers used?  What sort of distances does this grain travel to get to the dealer and then to the farm?  Like I have said, these issues aren’t within a vacuum, separate from each other.  And if you are satisfied with the answers, then by all means, buy the product.  

THE CONSUMER’S HEALTH 

                So if you have gotten this far, you are likely wondering why I haven’t yet addressed the health aspects to the consumer.  Two reasons: first and foremost, because this is the area where I feel like I can speak with the least amount of authority.  And second, because this is where the rubber meets the road for most and I am very wary of rocking the boat when such emotional fervor is usually accompanied by both sides of the GMO issue.  Putting aside all the systemic issues of intellectual property, increased usage of poisons, and a whole host of environmental, economic and social issues, I personally don’t see much conclusive evidence showing that consumption of GMO’s is directly detrimental to our health.  I have looked in detail at some of the more famous studies, particularly that of Seralini with rats and the more recent Carman/Vlieger study with hogs.  I say this knowing I risk a very strong backlash from many of my sustainable food allies, but the science in the research does not hold up to close scrutiny and I believe it detrimental to our alternative food movement to use these studies as debate points.  I personally, particularly as a hog raiser, would not put my reputation on the line for such research.  The key to putting things in perspective, I believe, can be found in the wording of the studies that claim GMO food is safe for health and environment.  Over and over one finds the phrase ‘AS safe as conventional food’.  The unfortunate reality is that very, very little of our food does not have some detrimental consequences either directly or indirectly.  If we go looking for these consequences, we will find them in any food system.  In light of that, I believe it is a matter of choosing which evils we are personally willing to live with and which ones we will attempt to avoid.

                Does it bother me that introducing genetically modified food into our lives is, in effect, an experiment on our population?  Yes, but though I am unhappy about it, I am used to living with this morally gray aspect in just about every facet of our society.  In addition, this genetic modification experiment has been going on for two decades already and we have not delineated direct correlation of GMO to the general un-health.  The data is still rolling in, but our epidemic of obesity and diabetes has a clear relation to our glut of high fructose corn syrup and sugar, as well as the accompanying Omega 3 issues and such.  There is a very strong argument that government subsidies of corn are far more responsible for our health epidemics than the consumption of GMO’s.  (Upcoming documentary) In fact, we know for sure that aside from GMO’s, numerous aspects of modern agriculture, as practiced today, are responsible for a whole host of health issues from blue babies, to antibiotic resistant viruses, to e. coli outbreaks, etc…  This is not to even mention the health of ecosystems being devastated, whether within the soil, in our waterways, or in the dead zones along our coasts.  When we place the GMO and health issue alongside all these scientifically established disasters, I personally feel the GMO issue distracts from these more vital systemic problems.

                As writer and poet, Sandra Steingraber has phrased it, we are all living downstream.  With the plethora of chemicals, pollutants and carcinogenic material ending up in our air, our food, and our drinking water, it is actually remarkable how little glyphosate or even the genetically modified DNA has shown up in our systems considering its ubiquitous use.  Perhaps atrazine, PCB’s, grain subsidies, routine antibiotic use, to name but a few of the plethora of known problems are simply too old hat and boring for us to spend our time and energy on.  In my opinion, to actually confront any of these issues without addressing the faulty and destructive systems that keep generating such problems is like fighting the proverbial hydra.  Chop off one head and two more will grow in its place.

CONCLUSION

                The last thing I want is for someone glancing over these thoughts to walk away with the assumption that Weathertop Farm thinks GMO’s are perfectly fine.  I trust our customers have a good sense of the complexities of the issues of our day.  The fact that I put more emphasis on other ‘green’ issues than on GMO’s is as much a strategic choice as anything else.  Sustainable agriculture is an attempt to start, maintain, and grow an alternative system that is both saner in its environmental, social and economic responsibilities, and less destructive than the systems in place today.  We, as an entire planet, are headed for crises of global impact.  Food and water will be at the heart of it all.  The hidden costs of modern agricultural systems are already catching up to us, and unless we have other systems in place that have been tried and proven effective, we will suffer a great deal in the inevitable transition.  Time is running out and we must choose our battles all the more wisely.

                Finally, I wish to say that I consider myself open-minded and am happy to learn more about any of these issues, as long as the discourse is levelheaded and respectful.  I am saddened by the tone of the arguments one finds these days in the public square, and consequently have written these thoughts with a great deal of trepidation.  In the end, we are all on the same boat, the same planet.  The crises are here at our doorstep and we cannot afford to lose our heads.

LIST OF FEED OPTIONS

In the search for sources of feed there are typically 4 general categories of feed to choose from:

1. Conventionally-grown pre-mixed feed: available at your local farm store or mill, already packaged.  Sometimes this feed is medicated and often contains a small amount of animal by-products.

2. Conventionally-grown feed that is custom-mixed: this is what we use here at Weathertop, we take a recipe down to the mill and they custom-blend the feed for us by the ton.  That way we ensure that the feed does not contain any medications, antibiotics, or animal by-products that we do not want, and instead we can add nutrients & minerals according to our recipe.  

3. Non-GMO conventionally-grown feed: this is feed mixed from non-GMO feed grains (non-GMO corn, non-GMO soy, etc.), but otherwise are grown conventionally and may have significantly higher levels of pesticide & herbicide levels than the GMO-conventional grains.  Our closest sources for non-GMO in large quantities tend to come from Pennsylvania or Ohio.  This option tends to be somewhere between 25%-30% more expensive than what we get at our mill.

4. Certified organic feed: feed made from organically-grown grains (by definition these are non-GMO as organic standards prohibit their use, and should have only USDA organic–approved chemicals used in their cultivation).  The extension office at Virginia Tech published a paper in 2009 (VTex2009) about Organic-feed grain markets.  They explain how “the U.S. imports 8 times more organic grain than it produces.”  80% of imported grain comes from China, some of this is organic grain.  Not only is the organic option the very opposite of local, but it can be 2 or 3 times as expensive as what we get at our local mill.  

5. Above and beyond:  We have never grown grain ourselves, but we have heard of a few operations that we find impressive and approach the ideal.  Typically non-GMO, but not necessarily labeled Organic, these environmentally responsible operations inevitably include rotations of crops, some even include a rotation where the land is grazed by animals, and the herbicides or pesticides are used at a very minimum, and when used, are also rotated.  These operations are typically focused more on encouraging the natural health of the soils than the bottom line.  However, though they may not make as much money for their grain, because the land is used in different and compatible ways, it can be used for other sources of revenue such as other cash crops or even meat.  Find us a source nearby like this and we will gladly use their grain. 

In Memory Of

Well, I've got another old science fiction story.  However, it comes with an R-rated warning.  Not only dark, but it's also quite long.

               Arthur left Professor Dunne’s Office with mind reeling.  It wasn’t anything the old art historian had said.  In fact, Arthur had nearly always agreed with the professor in the abstract.  It was how it had all been said—exactly like a politician.  The connotation hit him so hard, and with such clarity, he was embarrassed that he had never seen or felt it before.  Yet it was as if all the parallel mannerisms, body language, and tone had been building on either side of the gap within his brain that once a single synapse was able to spark across the chasm, a chain reaction occurred with hundreds of parallels reconfirming the connection.  The heightened consummation of delayed gratification, even if it was just in his brain, provoked physiological responses.  In the office, Arthur had turned pale as his undershirt and he felt sweat pooling from his pores.  That’s when things turned surreal.  He kept imagining Professor Dunne’s head was actually the President’s number one TV PR man whose face routinely popped up on any of the gazillion screens set up for public viewing.  It was an awful lot like watching his roommate, John, toying with his new morphing program he had recently installed in their computer.  What added to the hollow felt in his stomach was that the professor was so involved in what he was expounding on, that he never noticed the changes over his silent ex-pupil.  Arthur had mumbled something about another appointment and had excused himself.  He managed to hold on to his fragile composure until he heard the closing click of the metal automatic door to the office.
               A few shudders ran their course up and down his body and he stood just outside the door, staring blankly as he collected his thoughts.  He thought of his roommates, John and Rich, and immediately felt foolish for his tenacious naïveté.  Both John and Rich had seen through the professor’s façade way back when the three of them were students in Dunne’s ‘History of Art’ class.  Arthur had been defending the professor’s ideals, albeit pathetically in comparison to the genius of his friends’ minds, for years now.  And now he had been overwhelmed with the artificial sincerity so particular to political bullshit.  But how could someone so false hold such great principles, even if they are only in the abstract?  Doesn’t it take some character to understand the complexities of reality?

Arthur’s thoughts were interrupted as the metal door behind him slid into its slot in the wall and an elderly woman, carrying a box, bumped into him.  She glanced down at her box protectively, and then scowled at Arthur without a word.  Recognizing the woman as a professor but not recalling her name, Arthur mumbled an apology and headed down the exit hall.  He got to the automatic pad for the exit door, all the while feeling the teacher’s glare at his back, but it did not open for him.  He reached for the manual lever and yanked hard at it to get it to move to the side.  He hurried through into the cold and muffled noise of the glass tubeway.

Whoever had been the architect for these tubeways, thought Arthur, had no sympathy for those who had a fear of heights.  He was mildly bothered as he hung several hundred feet in the air with a view of traffic, both hovering and following rails.  But he had had a girlfriend, Amy, years ago that simply could not handle being suspended in glass every time one walked between buildings.  She had not been from a wealthy family so could not afford year-round airrail passes, let alone access to a hover car.  She used to say the clear days were worse.  That was before she OD’d.  Arthur looked down between his feet.  She might have managed today.  Just ten or twelve stories below him, the buildings and tubeways were lost in the ground smog.  Even the sun was not causing much greenhouse effect today through the glass.  It was going to be a long, cold walk to the apartment.

That’s when Arthur realized he had forgotten to talk to Professor Dunne about their art show next month.  That was the whole point of making the appointment, so the professor could pass on the information to his students.  Dunne had been kind enough to do it in the past, which was a great help since infoplugs could get expensive.  Shit!  Well, there was no going back now.  Arthur sighed at himself and decided he needed some coffee since obviously the small breakfast he had eaten was not keeping him alert enough. 

A half hour later, with coffee in hand, Arthur reached their apartment building.  But instead of going to the 78^th floor to their tiny pad, he took the elevator down to ground, far under the smog, where he and his roommates had rented one of the studios normally reserved for the riffraff.  A head of streaked hair popped out of the door next to the one he was keying with his id card.  It was the pimpless prostitute known as Techie.  She had introduced herself the first five minutes when they were moving their stuff to the studio.  They had given their real names and that had been a mistake.

“Arthur,” she crooned, ending with her tongue touching her upper teeth.  “I keep telling you the first time is free.”

Arthur couldn’t suppress his smile.  Techie had been named such because of how she dealt with her clients.  He didn’t know firsthand, but it was said that Techie’s studio was so jammed pack full of Teledildonic instruments that she never had to do more than a lap dance.  He shook his head laughing.  He recalled rumors of men getting so hopped up on the TDD machines that they would press buttons until their cock literally popped.

“Do your clients ever come out alive?”

“Invigorated,” she intoned.

“Sorry, too addicting for me.”

“A specimen of your constitution?  No, you would be inspired, not addicted.  I could be your muse…”

This provoked a snort that came out mostly through Arthur’s nose.  Most prostitutes he had run into tried to lure you with vulgarity, but Techie could cater her talk as sophisticated as she needed.  It was kind of freaky.                                                              

“I’ll catch you later,” he said and quickly slipped in the studio.

The room was not quite littered with paintings, sculptures and holograms—there was actually a pathway to walk among them.  Yet it was not hard to tell which works belonged to whom.  Rich, arguably the more talented, worked the traditional way with brush and paints.  Arthur stopped to study one of Rich’s that depicted Sozacom, the recently constructed sky hanger in the center of town, but in ruins, fallen from its perch above the old buildings.  Cracked open like an egg, there was hotel furniture and office paraphernalia spilling out like strewn guts.  The thought of a gargantuan sky hanger in its demise was shocking enough, but among the ruins were scraggly trees flanked by a whole botanical battalion reclaiming the spot.  Rich had a way of depicting vegetation to make it seem nearly conscious with purpose and one’s eye wanted to complete the movement of growth that practically made his canvasses ripple.

John, on the other hand, was quite the opposite, using color laserburns, incorporating digitals and a myriad of other new technologies to manipulate his pictures.  Comfortable with the darker side of things, John used his technologies to create sharp but provocative images that twisted ones emotions to the point where the viewer’s cognitive categories had the potential to break down.  In the vast majority of his works, John made use of an ordinary house android who served as an ‘everyman’ for the robotic world.  One picture would portray an infant suckling at the android’s breast.  The two would be sitting in a traditional Madonna and child pose with an obnoxious flashing neon halo above the android’s head.  Or the android might be depicted raping a pubescent girl; its head wired with a remote, manipulated by a pair of hands on the far corner of the picture.  The hands would be a strange mixture of human, machine, and demon.  Yet like the neon halo, John’s signature could be found in the expression of the girl.  While her body contorts in the agony of the horror, her face would be sealed in an unconvincing, idiotic smile.

Arthur did not even glance at his own works.  Partly because of familiarity, but there was also a hint of embarrassment.  It was not that he didn’t have talent or thought he didn’t.  All his professors had constantly told him he had great potential.  That was just it.  He was Mr. Potential who was so fully taken with his friends’ work he doubted his own art ever expressed his own voice.

Just then he heard the telltale blips from the entrance and a moment later the door slid open, revealing the whole of Techie.  She was wearing skin legs, Arthur was sure.  The kind that with a little manipulation you could make your legs look exactly how you pleased.  Hers were too perfect, with just the right skin tone of the latest fad, they couldn’t be real.  He was after all an artist, and had a knack for telling the real from the fake.  Except, perhaps, in the case of Professor Dunne¼

“Arthur?”

Arthur came to with embarrassment.

“Yeah?”

His eyes picked up from where they had left off.  She was not wearing much over those skin legs and at her crotch was a screen flashing obscene images.  Her top was probably her ‘nightie’, made of sheer gossamer that hung loosely, just barely veiling what was behind by iridescent colors that shimmered when she took breath.

“Hybrid Alert.  Thought you’d want to know.”

“Hybrid?”

“Yeah,” she said slowly as if no longer sure who she was talking to.  “Hybrid AI agent.  Coming right to our building.  You probably don’t want to be caught down here.”

“Oh right.  Thanks.  ‘Preciate it.”

Techie nodded skeptically and twirled back out the door.  How the hell did she get in here? Arthur thought suddenly.  He knew had not left the door on automatic entry.  She must have stolen the code.

“You forgot to tell Dunne and you gave away our code to Techie?  Jack, what’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, Jack yourself, John,” retorted Arthur.  “I didn’t give her the code.  She figured it out.  That’s why they call her ‘Techie’.  Besides, it’s not my fault they haven’t installed palm identification down on ground.”

“And Dunne?” piped in Rich.

“Forget Dunne.  You were right.  He’s a fake and when I realized that, I freaked out.  But that’s not the point of the story.”

“Well…,” drawled John, holding a cigarette just outside his lips until his ‘l’ had gone silent.

“There’s an AI agent coming, if you must know.”

“Shit!  Here?” John spluttered and promptly put his cigarette out.  He started gathering odds and ends and shoving them in drawers.

“Why didn’t you tell us earlier?”

“I was trying to.”

“But what do they want here?” John said, pulling out a small donut shaped object with several flashing lights.  He began waving it around and immediately the smell of smoke began to fade.

“Could be anything,” answered Rich.

                “Christ!  If it’s an inspection for a murder on ground, we could be locked up here for hours.  And I was just thinking how hungry I was.”

Just then there was a soft ‘cling’ from the doorbell.  The visual showed the unmistakable head of a Hybrid.  John’s demeanor immediately went cool and casual.

“No shit,” he muttered under his breath. 

Arthur clenched his jaw.  Rich was slowly making his way over to the door.  John carefully concealed his mechanical donut behind one of his works in process on his desk.  Rich eventually reached the door and palmed the entry operator.

A Hybrid was a strange sight to see anywhere, but framed in their doorway, the agent’s image was seared into Arthur’s brain.  Half human, half machine.  But as to which half controlled the other was impossible to tell. The Hybrid was the first to speak.

“Which one of you is Rich?” it said evenly, but with enough inflection to sound informally cordial.

Rich owned up to his name and was presented with a small infoplug.

“Congratulations.  We look forward to your response,” said the AI agent in the same tone.  Then unexpectedly it turned around and walked off.  Rich watched with open mouth as if still preparing to reply until the Hybrid turned a corner and was gone from sight.

“What the fuck was that?!” snorted John.

Rich palmed the door closed and turned, calmly putting the infoplug in his pocket.

“Let’s hear about Dunne,” he said.

“What!?” returned John.  “Aren’t you going to¼?”

Rich gave him a look.

“Oh no you don’t.  Give me the damn thing and I’ll play it.”

John moved towards Rich.

“Peace, John,” said Rich intensely and his eyes flashed.

John stopped in his tracks, his tongue working one side of his teeth.  He began nodding slowly with eyebrows raised.  Then he shut his eyes and his nod shifted to a shake.  Arthur knew exactly what was coming.  The funny thing was that he didn’t resent it the least bit.  This discussion might start out as a pseudo-therapy session for him, but it was only a pretense for his friends to continue their long-standing, unabashedly metaphysical debate.  Arthur knew exactly how to catalyze these situations.

“I think what has blinded me for so long is that I have the hardest time understanding how a fake can be so on target in his theoretical analysis.  How can one’s mind be in love with the Tao if he has never acted on it?”

Rich hardly paused for thought.

“To understand fakes, Art, you must know what they are copying.  I know I have said this before, but you have got to take a trip to the reservations.  There you are not going to find near the abundance of green as you would in our mechanical gardens.  But, by God, at least you have vegetation that is still wild and can reproduce itself.  The irony is that the fakes are greener than the real thing.  Just like a bulletproof analysis is too perfect.  One that is based on reality is going to reflect a great deal more uncertainty, making it not only plausible, but even sustainable over the long run.  It’s the modified plants that are more true to the seasons.  They produce bigger fruit and more leaves.  Basically they are more in every way except self-sustained and healthy.”

“Healthy?” interjected Arthur.  “They look extremely healthy.”

“That is the essence of the façade.  They only look healthier because they are continually pumped full of synthetic nutrients.  Put them out where the sunshine and water does not turn on in regular hour intervals, and they would all wilt and die.  That’s why you have to study the original reality.  At the reservations you are going to find an order and an artwork that is not in rows or squares or patterns built into the programs of the computer architects that make the great supermegatropolis’ possible.  Nature is wonderfully extravagant and had we only trusted her, we would have seen that she was the only efficient system without debilitating side effects.”

“You expect him to learn all that from a reservation?” retorted John from where he was sitting on his desk, revisiting his half-finished cigarette.  “If I may quote my friend Thoi, the mechanic, ‘Life is shit.  And when it throws you shit, evolve.’”

“I prefer to dodge,” quipped Rich.  “I’d rather not smell.”

“Rich,” said John, shifting into full gear.  “That’s like trying to dodge the air we breathe.  There are 78 floors of technology supporting you and giving you living space.  Hell, the only time you spend on ground is in our studio.  We either walk in tubes or take the airrail to work.  Come on Rich.  Even if our restaurant is old-fashioned and hires humans as servers, it’s in a fucking colossal box that hangs in the sky.  We all eat, sleep, shit, bathe, and everything else—all a half mile in the air.  It ain’t dogeable.”

“Then things need to change.  People need to realize how unhealthy it is.”

“That’s like a woolly mammoth trying to stop the glaciers from melting.”

“The difference is the mammoths were not the ones causing the meltdown.  Don’t you ever feel any responsibility?”

John shrugged.  “Let’s see the plug, Rich.”

Rich paused in his most infuriating way, but he soon walked over to the media-plex.  The wall of their apartment lit up as he played with the settings.  Then a head shot out from the wall in one of the crispest holograms they had ever seen.  The three of them recognized it immediately, and it seemed to be looking at each one of them directly in the eyes as it spoke.

“A good day to you, Rich,” the head said with a slight nod.  “I am Rillard James, the head of the Public Art Guild.  I am most pleased to let you know that the Art Guild would like to offer you the chance to display your work on our on-screen channel¼”

The head went on and on, explaining details and terms.  The three of them could not believe their ears.  Somehow, someone, or something, had recognized Rich’s talent and was offering him a doorway to fame.  And here was Rillard, otherwise known as ‘King James’, offering it from his own mouth. 

“Holy shit!” puffed John, once the head finally receded back into the wall.  “That’s no honorable mention.  That’s the whole, fucking, grand-prize!”

“Oh God,” came Rich’s response.  “What should I do?”

“Do?!” exclaimed John.  “You should give them the finger—that’s what you should do.  If you care about your art, that is.”

Rich said nothing; he was lost in thought.

Reinforced by Rich’s angst, the image of the Hybrid Agent plagued Arthur from that day on.  Almost immediately he began working on a portrait.  He started with the archaic brush and paints, setting the background and outlining the flesh of the agent.  Then he borrowed some of John’s gadgets to add the mechanical components as well as a metal frame, which was a miniature replica of their apartment doorway.  The painting was rather small, but it captured perfectly the ambiguous nature and was at once the individual agent and the prototype expressing the epic stalemate of tension between man and machine.  The agent had the form of a man but covering his shoulders and the back of his head was a network of circuitry and wires encased in the pewter color of the latest modern alloys.  But while this ‘cape’ suggested a human clothed in robotics, the appendages revealed artificial limbs only partially covered by grafted skin.  The entire body was a give and take of opposites, creating much of the ambiguous effect, but it was the face that held the full essence of the tension.  The indecipherable visage was mostly flesh with only one mechanical eye and the glint of metallic teeth within the mouth.  Yet it was impossible to tell, even after the thousandth study of the painting, whether the face was that of a human reduced to stale, mechanical expression of conventional emotion, or the profoundly groping and embryonic attempts of a machine struggling to push beyond imitation.

Arthur was not finished with the portrait before their showing on ground, but he didn’t care since he had no intention of selling it.  As for the show, some word must have gotten out as every single work of Rich’s was bought.  Normally this would have made them all ecstatic, but the atmosphere in the apartment was turning from pensive to tense.  John could tell Rich was on the verge of accepting King James’ offer.

“It may take a stout heart to knowingly sell your soul,” John said the day after the show.  “But that does not mean it isn’t a stupid thing to do.”

Rich bit the bait.

“But if I have something to offer,” he argued, “would it be right to hole away in our studio all my life?”

“Hell, you sound like an agent.  Doesn’t this mean shit to you?” John asked, brandishing his cigarette to indicate the apartment.

“This is our college dream.  Maybe it’s been realized.”

“Realized?  You sound like the old fart, Dunne.  When we all took ‘History of’ together, we swore to no prostitution.”

“Jesus, John!  I’m not thinking about the money—you can have my whole damn salary.”

“Then what is it about?”

“The masses, John.  This world is so screwed and I have something to say about it.  There are people out there who need to hear that there is an alternative to conventional normalcy.”

“Hell, Rich.  If you’re going to be a fucking Messiah don’t do it wearing the system’s royal garb.  So much for throwing pearls—you’ll be selling yours to swine.”

“They aren’t all swine,” Rich said with conviction.  “And besides aren’t you the one always quoting Thoi who says we should use the system’s own tools against them.”

“You’re way too honest to keep a façade like that up.  One sob story from some wretched soul wanting more from life but too weak to throw away his crutches, and you’ll crumble.”

“Now you’ve lost me.”

“Don’t worry,” John said in a tone Arthur felt appropriate for the sealing of a coffin.  “You’ll see soon enough.”

Several months later, Arthur was sitting in the apartment, watching their media-plex wall.  The place was trashed, as it had been since Rich left.  Arthur was reclined way back in his lounge chair, beer in hand.  There was a sea of clothes, papers, beer cans, and even food covering the floor around the island of his chair.  He couldn’t blame it on John either, even if the guy did live like a pig on principle.  John was rarely around these days, even to sleep, and Arthur could go for a week without seeing him.

The holographic images on the wall shifted from repetitive flashing of happy people spouting out information on commodities to the introduction of a show.  Arthur palmed the remote and turned the volume on.  A blast of classical music assaulted him with some historical footage of an orchestra playing.  A TIMELESS TALENT, the screen blasted.  AN IMMEMORIAL MESSAGE¼AND A PROPHETIC REMINDER.  A circling shot faded in of Rich at an archaic easel, with paintbrush in hand, attacking his canvas in typical bold fashion.  Rich’s brush paused for a moment while he turned his head and smiled at his viewers.

Arthur’s stomach lurched.  He never failed to get queasy with that look from Rich.  In fact, he had shut off the program the last three times he had seen the smile.  He fumbled for the remote, but it was not where he thought he had put it.  He sat up and saw the remote on the floor just to the side of his chair, half submerged in some unrecognizable sauce.  He leaned way over to reach for it when suddenly he heard the voice of Rillard James, “The King”, saying something about Rich’s new speaking tour that would begin next month and how this was not going to affect these screen shows, which would continue in all earnest.  Arthur turned to look at the holographic head of King James, still paused precariously over the arm of the chair.  A shot of Rich intent on articulating some idea was fading in just as the “cling” of the doorbell softly rung from every hidden speaker surrounding the entire apartment.

Arthur cursed, still feeling nauseous.  He ignored the drowning remote and hurried over to the wall to manually shut the program off.  Then he rushed to the door and without checking the visual, palmed the door open.  He took in a sharp breath as a Hybrid Agent filled his vision, once again framed by the doorway.

“Is this the Residence of John McRenie?” asked the agent.

Arthur was too flustered to speak and simply nodded.

The Hybrid studied him for a brief moment, perhaps in judgment, perhaps with curiosity.

“This must be given to him.”

An info plug, like the one presented to Rich, was handed to Arhur.

“If it is not viewed by John within a week, you will be charged with theft.”

Arthur tried to get a protest out of his mouth, but without any sort of sign that their interaction was over, the Hybrid Agent turned and left. 

How would they even know if it was John who viewed it? was the first thought to pop in Arthur’s head.  Then he realized he was still standing at his open door.  Back inside, he suddenly got suspicious.  One should never doubt what they could do with technology.  Maybe they have this whole apartment monitored.  On impulse, he set down the infoplug on John’s desk, grabbed his rucksack off the floor, and left the apartment.  Their studio’s rent was done tomorrow and he had put off cleaning it out till now.  There was only his portrait of the Hybrid Agent that he cared to keep, but the rest at least had to be thrown out.

Down on ground, where the smell of smog permeated everything despite the plethora of scenters every hall was equipped with, Arthur felt more relaxed and his stomach stopped its churning.  He was nearing their studio when he caught sight of Techie with a man at her door.  They were kissing, quietly but intensely.  Strange.  Arthur did not think Techie kissed her clients.  But as the man slowly pulled out of the embrace, she looked reluctant to let go, almost clinging to him.  Then to his shock, he realized it was John.  By the time he got to the studio door, however, Techie was back inside her place and John greeted him as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“Just thought I’d get the rest of the stuff out of here before tomorrow,” said Arthur, explaining his presence.

John joined him as he still had some odds and ends in the studio.  Later, back up in their apartment, John and Arthur watched the infoplug.  It was very similar to the one Rich had been given and was offering John a side show to the one Rich was already involved in.  Rich, assured the holographic head, had spoken highly of his friend and the Art Guild was interested in the dynamics of juxtaposing their different styles.

“He betrayed us, the bastard,” was John’s instant reaction.  “Told them about us.”

“Maybe not,” said Arthur.  “I was wondering if the apartment was being monitored.”

“Makes no difference.  The son-bitches aren’t going to turn me into some neutered Personality-Of-Influence.”

John began packing right then.  Arthur couldn’t get anything more out of his roommate, who was now cursing and insulting everyone from King James to the heads of government with such vile language that Arthur thought if they really were being monitored, they may end up with some serious explaining to do.  When he finally said something, John turned on him.

“We?  It’s not we anymore, pea-brain.  I’m out of here.  Gone-fucking-vamoose!”

It took a few days to figure things out at work, where the other servers could cover all his shifts.  Arthur threw a few belongings in his rucksack, called Rich to get directions to his new place, and set off to catch the earliest tube train.  The train was connected to the glass tubeways at little bubble stations.  At the station, Arthur slipped his All-for-one ID card in the ticket computer and watched uneasily as the total was subtracted from his savings. 

“The train has been notified and will arrive in eight minutes,” sang the soft, ubiquitous, female voice that always seemed to accompany automated service.

The tube train took Arthur to the city’s main ‘meta-vortex’, as they had been newly named and built.  These mega stations could connect you to virtually any major city in the world.  It was the poor man’s way to travel and Arthur felt sorry for those taking the three-day trips to the other side of the globe.  Thankfully, he was only going to a nearby city some four hundred miles away, which was under an hour one way.  People were scurrying every which way, some talking in groups, others wolfing down food and drink as they jostled their way to the over-full speed wheelers or paid the extra for the smaller family sized segways to take them to their respective trans-trains.  Technically these were not trains, but a kind of hybrid plane that flew, guided by underground rails.  It was all the same to Arthur, just as long as he got to where he needed to go. 

The trip was uneventful save for when a civil solicitor tried to recruit him for government work in exchange for tuition subsidies.  When Arthur explained he was already out of school, the solicitor cocked her head as if to tell him she didn’t believe a word of his story.  She said ‘bye’ rather curtly and headed off in search of easier prey.  Funny thing was, he probably would have lied had he still been in school, though not to pretend he was older, since in college he still looked like a sophomore in high school.  At the other meta-vortex, he switched to another tube train and was met by Rich at an enormous bubble station.

“Smallest one in the area,” said Rich with a smile.  “Most people living in this neighborhood wouldn’t be caught dead hanging out here.”

Arthur looked his friend over.  Rich had grown a good deal skinnier and was wearing very odd-looking clothes that looked as if he had made them himself from parts of commercial food storage bags.  Then Arthur noticed he was barefoot.  Rich ignored the looks and led the way to his apartment.  They zipped up to a newly designed sky hanger, whose reception area and hallways were full of state of the art holograms and entertainment hubs where one could spend weeks watching one-viewer holofilms or concerts, or play the most recent InterAction games.  Rich’s door opened on voice recognition and Arthur found himself in a spacious and posh apartment, whose first room was nearly as big as the whole apartment the three of them had shared before.  Everything was immaculate, without a single morsel of food, let alone an article of clothing or something littering the floor.  Some room service they must have here, thought Arthur.  Then he noticed that the entire living room, couches and chairs, and even a superb media-wall, was covered with dust.  In fact, when he looked down, he saw they were literally walking on a path of dustless-ness, the sides of which showed the footprints of Rich.  They passed two bedrooms and a rec-room that were in the same state as the living room.  It wasn’t until they got to the kitchen that the place actually looked lived in.  Here was evidence of hyper-activity where Rich had obviously spent a good deal of time. Cooking! thought Arthur.  That was a lost art in itself.

Rich walked through the kitchen to a back door and led Arthur into a smaller bedroom.  The place was tidy, but full of the normal living stuff one expects in an apartment.  The distinct BO of his friend hit Arthur’s nostrils and the rush of the familiar put him back at ease.

“You can have the cot.  I’ll sleep on the floor,” offered Rich.  “Unless of course, you wanted your own room.”  This last bit was said almost with fear.

“Naw, this is great,” said Arthur and tossed his rucksack on the cot.

Rich sat down cross-legged on his sleeping mat on the carpeted floor.

“I suppose you’re wondering about all this.”

“Sure, if it’s alright.”

Rich took a conscious and controlled breath.

“I’m living on the premises that pampering the body dulls the mind and soul.  And if I’m to justify being here and doing what I’m doing, my painting has to be at its prime.  I can’t let all this luxury erode any quality, so I’m living as simply as I can.”

Then he added sheepishly.  “It has sort of become religious.”

“John was offered a show and disappeared,” said Arthur in response.

Rich nodded.  “I thought they might.  They kept asking me questions about him and his work.  I finally refused to talk about him.”

“He was as pissed as I’ve ever seen him.”

Rich nodded again.

“We just ended the lease on the studio, but I was thinking of renting it again instead of the apartment, since I don’t know of anyone who wants to room with me.”

“Keep the apartment,” said Rich.  “I’ll pay for the rent.”

“No, you don’t have to do that.”

“Of course I will.  It’s ridiculous what they pay me.”

Arthur thought his friend seemed so sad.

“You happy, Rich?”

Rich looked up, mildly surprised.

“That’s not really the issue¼I’m trying to say something with what I’m doing.”

“I heard you’re starting a speaking tour soon.”

“The tour starts next month, but I’ve already been speaking at gatherings around the city.”

“No shit.  Professor Rich.”

Rich cracked a smile.  “Can’t quite figure out how I feel about it all.  Sometimes real insights come to me when I’m preparing a talk, or even while I’m giving it, and I feel so alive and excited that I’m communicating something important.  I mean, your adrenaline starts flowing and synapses start firing like crazy and everything seems clear and interconnected.  I even feel eloquent at times.  But you always find out later that nothing was taken as you meant it.  Well, not nothing, I guess that’s why I keep at it, but the reactions always hit me as a surprise.”

Rich paused and Arthur said nothing, wanting his friend to continue.

“There are sort of two main ways people react, and I’m not sure which is worse.  On the one hand you have the fanatic fans that try to become you.  It’s gotten so ridiculous that there’s a group of them that make their own clothes like mine out of food bags.  They even go around barefoot.  So many times I’ve almost stopped living the way I do because of them.  It’s like they’re stealing something incredibly personal.  And the damn thing is that I tell them that in my talks and even to their faces.  I mean, if they had listened to half of what I’ve said about individual diversity and how each person’s way to maintain mental and spiritual gravity to counter balance the dulling effect of the system on our senses, they wouldn’t make themselves carbon copies.  That’s just trading me for the system. 

“And the rest of them love what I have to say and don’t change a damn thing in their lives.  I can’t understand why they like what I say because it’s people like them that I’m criticizing.  And the stronger I say things against them the more they like it.  I mean hell, I lost my cool the other day and started criticizing the audience so bad with insults even John might have thought worthy.  It was bad.  I thought that was the end of my career.  Almost wish it was.  I was sure the audience was going to lynch me or something.  Instead they gave me a standing ovation.  I don’t get it.  I wish I could understand irony like John.”

The two talked long into the night.  Arthur did most of the listening, amazed at the amount of thought Rich had put into what he painted and tried to communicate in his talks.  Arthur had the vague sensation he was talking to a revered pilgrim or monk.  Rich didn’t have to be in the filming studio till the afternoon, so they slept in.  At least Arthur did, for when he woke up, Rich was in the kitchen concocting up something that smelled heavenly.  In the afternoon, Arthur tagged along to see what work was like for Rich.  The show crew had Rich, who was now wearing very stylish clothes, set up at his easel and had hooked up miniature robotics to his painting arm.  These were placed so as not to be seen when filmed, but sent the signal to mechanical arms in the other room that imitated every stroke on electric canvas.  Not only did this allow the painting to be replicated in mass or downloaded to subscribers’ computers at home, but the movements were patterned and stored in memory so that Rich’s tradition could continue at a later date when his painting days were over. 

While footage was being taken of Rich at work, one of the crewmembers approached Arthur.  He seemed friendly enough and once Arthur explained he was Rich’s old roommate, he became intensely interested.  He asked about living with Rich, even about John, as well as questions about his own art.  As Arthur grew more hesitant, the crewmember grew more animated.  The guy knew a frightful amount about him, and Arthur got the vague impression that he, Rich, and John were referred to as a living urban legend.  “The Trio”, as the crewmember called them, was expected to reunite one day, and Arthur’s visit was perhaps a sign. Arthur didn’t know if he should just write off his new acquaintance as wacky, until the guy began drumming up an idea for Arthur to join Rich for a special showing.  Arthur recoiled in terror, excused himself and practically ran back to Rich’s sky hanger.  He couldn’t get into the apartment without Rich so he spent the rest of the afternoon in an entertainment hub.

That night, over a homemade meal, Rich told Arthur that his producers were serious about including him in a show.  They were particularly interested in his portrait of the Hybrid Agent.  How the hell did they know about that? Arthur wanted to know.  Rich just shrugged and said that was the way with the system. 

“You can’t hide,” he said.  “You have to fight it through mind and spirit.”

“John’s hiding,” Arthur blurted out.

Rich looked like he was on the verge of tears.  “I wish I were John.”

Arthur left first thing the next morning.

Three weeks later Rich was killed in a transport accident on his way to a speaking engagement.

Everything’s empty, thought Arthur, slouched in his lounge chair.  This apartment, my wallet, my art, my brain, my spirit--if I’ve got one.  How the hell are you supposed to fight the system with your mind and soul if you are empty, Rich?  For the hundredth time he thought of going down to Techie’s room and asking him to give her so much sensation that he blacked out.  Maybe he’d get lucky and never wake up.  If only John would come.  Then a thought struck him.  Techie might know. 

A few minutes later, Arthur was on ground ringing the doorbell to Techie’s studio.  She opened it smiling.  She was wearing the same screen at her crotch as the last time he had seen her, but for a top she only had a skin colored, seamless bra.  Vivid tattoos dancing around her belly button drew one’s attention to her midriff, like some hypnotist’s gadget.

“It’s before hours,” she said teasingly.

“I...” swallowed Arthur, thinking of his wish for oblivion.

The tease in Techie’s smile spread to her whole face and her eyebrows lifted questioningly.

“I wanted to ask you about one of your clients.”

Techie’s face sealed off instantly, but she still spoke kindly.  “That’s really none of your business.”

“It’s about John, my old roommate.  I need to find him and I thought maybe you...” Arthur trailed off.

Techie smiled again, but it was softer with understanding.  “He wasn’t exactly a client you know.  We were on much more intimate terms than that.”

“Oh,” was all Arthur could say.

“Come on in.  I think I might be able to help you.”

Arthur followed the prostitute into her studio.  It was larger than the one they had rented and an open door led to an adjacent room.  The inside was crammed with numerous machines that waited, poised to receive their willing victims in different positions. They gave Arthur the impression of gangly spiders, crouched as if ready to spring.

“The other room has the holofilms,” said Techie, catching him staring at her wares.  “Possibly the widest selection in the country.  You can rent them or pay an extra fee to watch them here with my equipment.”

The prostitute reminded him of a sorceress in her palace or something, watching with amusement as her charms and spells worked on her victim.  Arthur felt the need to explain himself.  “Back a month or so, John got an offer to do a screen show, like our other roommate.  He was so scared or mad, or both, that he took off without a word.”

“You make it sound like it was all out of the blue.  He started threatening to leave the day Rich accepted that asinine offer.  Each time he visited me, I was sure it was our last time together.”

“He never told me,” protested Arthur.

“Then he probably didn’t want you to know how to find him.”

“But I have to.”

Techie lifted an eyebrow.

“Rich was killed in an accident.  And I need¼I need¼” Arthur stopped.

“I’m so sorry,” said the prostitute with earnest sincerity.  “Oh, my poor baby.”

Arthur had no illusions that she meant him. 

“I can’t imagine what John will do when he finds out.”

Arthur sank down on a chair he hoped was safe.  Techie squatted in front of him and put a hand on his knee.

“I’ll tell you, but you might not want to go.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s somewhere in the sub-cities.  I don’t know where exactly, but I have some contacts that would know.”

Arthur took in a deep breath.  The sub-cities were the shantytowns of the marginalized and runaway criminals who made their homes in the labyrinth of several subterranean transport systems that were antiquated for one reason or another.  Any reference to them brought up dark and violent connotations.  Anarchy ruled where the gangs didn’t, and unless one had reliable connections, one only went there out of desperation.   Arthur knew himself to be a fool.

“Couldn’t send a message could we?”

Techie shook her head.  “Even if it got to him, John’s not resurfacing.”

“Even for the death of Rich?”

“Especially now.”

“I don’t understand.”

The prostitute’s answer was a wan smile.

Damn her, thought Arthur.  She’s as enigmatic as John.

“You’re cute, you know, in an innocent sort of way,” said Techie with a hint of mischief.  “You’d have a chance.”

“What do you mean?” asked Arthur, wary of the flattery.

“If you stuck with the women, they’d probably help you just because of your face.  Sort of arouses a mix of maternal and sexual instinct.”

Arthur’s face burst into red and when the prostitute stood up and put a hand to his chin, he could not meet her eyes.

“It’s the honesty.  You look so vulnerable everyone wants to protect you so that they alone can be the one to hurt you in their own dreamed up way.”

Twisting his chin as she lifted one knee onto his lap, Techie forced Arthur’s face back around.  He felt defenseless and his face was not the only part of his body to experience a rush of warmth.  Her mouth was close enough to his that he felt the moisture of her breath on his lips.

“Play it right and you could have the world,” she whispered.

Arthur whispered back.  “I don’t want the world.  I just want to see John.”

The prostitute paused, as if in decision.  Arthur, who had averted his eyes, was surprised to feel her lips lightly kiss his forehead.  Then she released him and stood back up.

“Like I said, stick to the women.”

“And the men?”

“Oh, stock up on enough ‘vigorettes’ and you’ll be fine.  Guys will do anything for a single tote.”

Arthur did not the miss the forced nonchalance in her voice, but he pressed on.

“Where do I get those?”

Techie considered for a moment.  “You can buy them off of me.  I’ve got a stash.”

  

The next day, by midday, Arthur was hopelessly lost.  He was in a dimly lit tunnel with two rails of tracks beneath him.  He carried only his rucksack and a piece of paper with a few names, numbers and some rudimentary directions.  He had spent nearly a half pack of vigorettes to get this far and, for all he knew, was probably further off than when he started.  Should of bought more than three packs from Techie, but they had already cost over half of his savings.  And where were the damn women to stick to?  He hadn’t seen a female soul yet, unless of course you count the trio that started going at it right in front of him after a few totes on the vigorette he had offered.  They were the ones who had said there was a supply store called Sergeant’s or something, just a mile or so down this track.  Not the one he was looking for, of course, but it was logical enough that they might know where he needed to go. 

He had been walking for a good hour when he came to a vast, open space of what had once been a station.  The place did not look rundown; the walls and structures were made of material that could last a millennium.  Dusty but intact, it was simply unused.  Emptiness of this proportion was eerie, but his eye was quickly drawn to a little building at the forefront just off the track a ways down.  He could see a handful of people and a motley assortment of vehicles near the front door.  When he arrived at the building, the men chatting at the entrance watched him with hostility as he walked inside.  The layout of the interior was nearly identical to the stations Arthur was used to.  Chairs and tables hooked into moveable blocks had been set up in bunches and above were ducts in regular intervals that blew or sucked air depending on the atmosphere inside.  The ordering counter that was normally set way back in the corner had been moved out into the middle and walls blocked off access behind.  Besides the normal set up with food and their respective advertisements arrayed behind the counter, he could see shelves and shelves of supplies.  Famished, Arthur immediately gravitated to the counter where a huge bearded man in a monstrous dark trench coat, eyed him cautiously.

“I need something to eat,” said Arthur, unable to get a good look at the food advertisements behind the man.

“How much you weigh?”

“Oh...one-forty-five maybe.”

The bear of a man wrinkled his forehead in disgusted mock surprise.

“Scrawny,” he grunted.  Then he added, “carbohydrate or protein?”

“Heavy on the protein, please.”

“How you going to pay?”

“You don’t take the All-for-one ID here do you?”

The man raised his eyebrows, looking like he was losing his patience.

“Got anything to barter?”

Arthur paused.  “Yeah,” he said with just the right touch of reluctance.

He had this act down pretty well now.  He swung his pack from his shoulder and began rummaging through it, muttering all the while.  At last he pulled out a vigorette, just slightly bent at the end.  He watched it mournfully as he handed it to the man. 

“I just need food, a place to rest for a bit, and hopefully some directions.”

The man casually took the dual-colored smoke and then lazily reached back to grab a package, which he tossed onto the counter.  He produced a small metal tray with utensils and paused in mid-reach for another shelf.

“How hot you want your warm-up powder?”

“Mild, please.”

“There you go,” he said as he tossed Arthur a small package and waved him off.

Arthur automatically obeyed and headed for a private booth.  He would have to ask for directions later.  He sat down and emptied the larger package on the metal tray.  It was cold and chopped up in little cubes of several different colors.  The dark brown cubes outnumbered the others two to one, so he assumed those were the protein.  Cold as it was, it smelled good to his neglected stomach.  He poured the powder from the smaller package over the cubes and stirred it all together.  As the powder dissolved, he felt instant heat rise from the food.  Lost in the ecstasy of satiating hunger, it was not until he was nearly done that he re-awoke to himself and remembered where he was.  Glancing up, he noticed a couple at a booth in the corner who must have come in while he was eating.  All he could see of the man was the back of his head and shoulders, but the woman was facing him.  Both had long hair, dyed such a deep green it would look black in most lights.  They wore dark protective clothing, suitable for travel on an open vehicle.  The woman had a sharp angular face with a striking tattoo of a vine on her left cheek.  The tattoo gave the impression that it was growing right out of the lower lid of the eye.  Enveloping a metal skeleton, the depiction of the vine looked oddly familiar to Arthur.  Then he realized the woman was looking back at him, a slight smirk playing around the corner of her mouth.  Self-conscious, Arthur returned to his food. 

He had but a few dark cubes left on his tray when a group of men burst into the store.  Leading the pack was a bearded man, nearly as big as the one behind the counter.

“Jake and his boys are coming, Mr. Sergeant!” he bellowed out of breath.

“What the hell does he want?” asked the man behind the counter in a voice to match.  “He should know better than to slink out of his precious ‘Holo’s & More’.”

Arthur did a double take.  He recognized the name as the store he was supposed to have found.

“Says he gonna teach you a lesson once and for all.  Says you’ve been flooding the market just when you knew he was starting with those sex sticks.”

“Flooding the market with these?” asked Mr. Sergeant, brandishing his newly acquired vigorette.  “Who the hell would do that?”

The giant of a man slowly turned to eye Arthur.

The herald took no notice.  “I’m sure Jake did it himself.  You know he’s been itching for the slightest excuse to come after us.”

Mr. Sergeant returned his attention to the newcomers.  His beard broke into a smile and then a laugh.  “Let him come.  He’s had his lesson coming to him for far too long.”

Then he turned to the couple in the corner.  “Greeney!”

The dark-haired man turned.

“I need you to round-up the reserve squad.  Tell them to meet us at station 23.  And to bring the heavy stuff.”

Greeney got up slowly, and after a few words with his partner, followed the men out the door.  A moment later, Arthur found the woman with the tattoo had hurried over to his booth. 

“Quick now, while Sergeant’s gone.”

Arthur was too taken back to protest and he allowed himself to be led to a back entrance that opened directly into what must have once been a maintenance tunnel.  The woman pulled him in and pulled the door shut.

“So where are you trying to get to?”

“I guess Daphne at Holo’s & More,” fumbled Arthur.

The woman looked puzzled.  “What’s Techie sending you there for?  What’s going down?”

Arthur gaped.  “How do you know about Techie?”

Amusement settled on the woman’s face and Arthur thought she glanced up somewhere around his hairline.

“You don’t know do you?” she smirked.

Arthur shook his head with rising irritation.

“Doesn’t matter.  I’ll take you to Daphne’s.”

Arthur and Eve, as the woman with the vine tattoo was called, found Holo’s & More nearly as deserted as Sergeant’s Supplies.  At least there were no men around.  The Stations and supply stores were fairly similar to each other, the only significant difference being the wares.  Jake and Daphne, on top of the staples of food and basic necessities, were offering a host of technological gadgets and entertainment gizmos of the latest fads.  Arthur had to take this all in a flash as Eve led him straight to a booth with a half dozen women.  Some were still finishing their meals while others were just starting in on a smoke.  Eve addressed a woman not much older than herself who looked tall even as she sat.

“Got a man here who’s got some business with you, Daphne,” Eve said and promptly set off to find a drink for herself.

Daphne raised a doubtful eyebrow.  “What is it?”

“I’m looking for John McRenie.”

Daphne was suddenly more alert.  “And who the hell are you?”

“I’m his old roommate.”

Daphne studied him for a long while.  “Alright.  I know someone who is privy to where he’s holed up.  I’ll see if I can get a hold of her.”

She stood up, towering over Arthur, and disappeared somewhere behind the counter.  While Daphne was gone, the women paid Arthur little more attention than to offer him a seat.  Like a mere school boy in the presence of upperclassmen, he felt a strange and childish awkwardness around these hardened women who seemed so comfortable in the subcities; their men off to kill each other without a crease of worry on their faces.  He would have been happy to see Daphne return when she did except she was carrying an enormous brute of a weapon, cradled in her arm.

“Troubles coming.  Seems like a group of Sergeant’s men sidestepped Jake and are coming to ransack our wares.”

“You sure of that?” asked Eve.

“Damn certain.  And they know what lines they’re crossing.”

Arthur screwed up his courage.  “What about John?”

Daphne ignored him and addressed Eve.  “Take him to the shelter.”

“Shelter,” muttered Arthur to himself a good while later in a small cube of a room, far underneath the station.  He had heard the ominous click of the lock when Eve left and then complete silence.  There was a faint glow of light tucked away in the ceiling to prevent complete sensory deprivation and he settled down for a wait, feeling like one does when a train or flight is delayed.  Eventually he slipped his rucksack off and, lying down on the floor, used it for a pillow. 

He awoke to the click of the lock and the door to the shelter opening.  He sat up slowly and took a moment to realize that John was standing above him. 

“Couldn’t believe it when they told me.  What the hell are you doing here?”

Still groggy, Arthur answered slowly.  “Rich is dead.”

John laughed.  Not a very happy one.  “You came all this way to tell me that?”

Arthur stared with no answer.  John stared back.  When John broke the silence, his spoke fast, his sentences coming out sharp and staccato.

“You don’t think I know?  You think you’re the only one who watched his show?  Don’t be a pompous ass, Art.”

Arthur felt his eyes stinging.  “John, you are the only family I’ve got.”

John began pacing, which was only about two and a half paces in the small room.  “I know, I know.  You were a rejected ‘Tubie’.  Your parents were infertile and ordered you from the lab and then reneged when their fucking marriage fell apart.  But the mother’s mother was religious and so didn’t think it right to literally throw life down the drain and paid to have the whole process go through, surrogate womb and all.  Of course there was no family to take care of you, so the goddam government took on the great responsibility...”

“John,” Arthur pleaded.

“...Of course, you were lucky to have a fairy grandmother who paid for good education and only got fucked up every other stage of your life.  But hell, you even got to go to art school and meet Rich and me, and now you’re left with me.  Aren’t you glad you weren’t tossed down the drain?”

“I don’t know John.  Why...what are you doing?”

John stopped pacing.  “Me?  What are you doing?  You were saved from the drain once.  Why are you tossing yourself down here now?”

“I came to find you.  Why are you here?”

John stared and then started pacing again.  “It’s no different up there.  It’s just all concealed behind a corporate or suburban façade.  You’ve got the fuckers and fucked and the fucked fuckers¼”

Suddenly it was very clear to Arthur.  John needed the certain and infuriating calm of a barefoot pilgrim.  He needed thoughtful and ridiculously optimistic words about mental and spiritual gravity.  Arthur could see, hear and even smell exactly who John needed.  John was still ranting when Arthur interrupted.

“I visited Rich a couple weeks before the accident.”

John stopped mid-sentence.  He looked around the room as if taking in his surroundings for the first time.

“Shit, Art.  I am so sorry.  Let’s get out of this hell hole.”

              Once in John’s apartment, Arthur’s old roommate was back to his confident self.  As always, he was in finest form when expounding on Rich’s fatal flaws.  He was keenly interested in the story of the standing ovation of Rich’s rebuked audience.

“He was a controlled outlet like those hydroelectric dams they used to put on the rivers when the waterways still flowed on their natural courses.  All this pressure would build up, which was what provided the power, but the rains, being uncontrolled back then, would create the need for the excess to be let out.  Rich had something to say about real needs and problems, and the motherfuckers in charge knew he was right.  Only he let them control how he communicated and they used his truths as a release for the masses rather than means for change.  Hell, most of our world is machine now.  People, maybe the machines themselves, are so hungry for life.  They’re drawn to it like flies to shit.  And when they get their hands on it, they’ll milk the life out of you till you are dryer than an old hag.  Even after you’re dead.  Haven’t you seen the programs on Rich’s death?  They are getting more mileage out of the goddam accident than his art.”

Arthur sighed.  “It all comes back to capital doesn’t it?  Anything to generate money?”

“No.  Hell no!  Not about capital anymore.  That was the first stage but that’s history now.”

“Then what?”

“They’re bored,” came the answer.  “No.  They’re fucking undead.  Just barely able to stay alive as a parasite on the life around them.  And whatever they get their hands on they’ll use it to make the system bigger and even hungrier.  They’re insatiable.  That’s why after Rich they came for me.  And you can bet your testicles they’ll come for you.”

Arthur let out an uneasy sigh.  “What should I do?”

“Well, you could live here with me.”

Arthur gave John a look.  “In the drains?”

“Oh,” John waved the incident off, “I find I can paint down here again.”

“Really?  Can I see?”

John’s eye’s narrowed.  “Not yet.  They’re kind of...well, violent.”

“I couldn’t do it, John”

“Why not?”

“It’s kill or be killed down here.  I can’t live that way.”

John nodded.

“I’ll get one of the girl’s to get you back.”

“Yeah, how does this whole Techie gang thing work anyway?”

This time John laughed for real.

“You’ve got her lipstick on your forehead.”

Arthur rushed to the nearest mirror but could see no mark.

“You can’t see it unless you put in the eye drops she gives you,” explained John still smiling.  “I’d give you some but then you’d see the joke she played on me.  I’m absolutely covered with the stuff from head to toe.  Should have seen the looks I got from her gang when I first came down here.”

Then John got as serious as Arthur had ever seen him.  “So¼you gonna follow in Rich’s footsteps?”

Arthur shook his head.  “They would never want me.  I’m not half as good as he was.”

“You could be.  But that’s irrelevant at this point.”

“Then I’ll stop painting altogether.”

“And they’ll have completely destroyed you.  Forced you to strangle your own soul.  Now you see why I’m down here?  At least I’m still painting.”

“But I couldn’t live like you.”

“And nor like Rich.”

“So what to do?”

John paused, but only briefly.  “Go to Thoi, the mechanic Rich always accused me of quoting too often.  He has means to restore anonymity.  Techie can tell you where he works.”

When Arthur returned to the apartment, instead of abandoning his art as he had planned, he immediately began working on a portrait of Rich.  It was entitled “The Pilgrim”, with Rich sitting casually in his bedroom in mid explanation.  Arthur had him sitting on the floor, barefoot and in his self-made clothes.  The body was finished quickly, but Arthur fretted over the face.  He refused to let himself look at any pictures and only painted what he remembered by memory.  He would sit there for long periods with his eyes closed, seeing the visage in his head.  Once he was in this state of mind, Arthur could work for hours, painstakingly getting a single contour just right.  Then there were days he would leave his work, and try to put it out of his mind completely.  He filled up a lot of time waiting tables and taking up as many extra shifts as he could.  He even took to go visiting Techie on her off hours just to chat and tell her about his time finding John.

A month had gone by since he had returned from the subcities when the police came to his door with a note from John.  A suicide note, the police informed him regrettably and then left.  When Arthur opened it he read, “I should have been Rich.”

Several days later an agent showed up at the studio.  The story of John’s suicide had gotten around and as the last of the legendary trio, Arthur was being offered the chance of a lifetime.

“Leave me alone!” Arthur had shouted at the agent.

The Hybrid smiled ambiguously.  “I understand that this is a difficult time for you, but when you are ready to make something meaningful of your grief, we can give you the opportunity you need.”

Arthur slammed the door in the agent’s face and, after packing his painting implements and his few favorite works in his rucksack, fled the apartment.  He went down to get directions from Techie and then went straight to ground and found Cashay Street where John’s friend, Thoi, had his shop.  Arthur waited for the old codger to finish dealing with a customer and then walked in timidly.  For as much as John had always praised Thoi’s mechanical wizardry, all Arthur could see was hundreds of simple hover scooters in every shape and size.

“You’re not really interested in scooters are you, son?” came a deep, cracked voice.

Arthur started and realized he must have been lost in thought for some time.

“No, not exactly,” he managed.  “I’m a friend of John’s.”

“Son-of-a-bitch could have at least gotten himself killed by someone else.  It isn’t too hard down in the subies.”

Arthur swallowed, still shaking a bit.

“He told me you...”

“Yes, I know who you are,” droned the deep voice.  “Been expecting you.”

“Uh...my name is Arthur.”

“Thoi,” came the answer and an old greasy, callused hand was thrust out over the counter.

Arthur shook the hand.

“I got the idea from John that you know how to tamper with identities.”

Thoi gave him a long stare before answering.

“You have no idea what that involves, do you?”

“Not really,” admitted Arthur.  “But I’m being hounded and I’m feeling pretty desperate.”

“Done something dirty, son?  John didn’t give me that sort of impression of you.”

“No.  It’s not that at all.  They want me for my art.  Well, not even that.  They want me for my connection with Rich and John.  Somehow it’s worse this way.  If I had committed some awful crime, at least this would all make sense.  But I’m running because they want to applaud me.”

“You are running because you don’t want to play their game.  And believe me, son, choosing an alternative to the system, particularly when being asked to be a player, is one of the worst crimes in their eyes.”

Arthur sighed nervously.

“Can you help me?”

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?  It will drastically change not only your life, but your very self.  And it can be painful.”

Arthur thought of his dead friends and the panic of insanity he still felt from his last confrontation with the Hybrid Agent.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

A week later, Arthur found himself in the basement of Thoi’s shop.  This time, as he understood little of what he saw, he was impressed with the collection of scraps and complex robotics strewn about.

“Tampering requires an even more drastic process when your name is already known,” Thoi was saying.  “Most identifying systems read your individual brainwaves peculiar to the cerebellum at the back of your head.  These waves, of course, can be scrambled and re-patterned as you please—if you know what you are doing.”

Thoi proceeded to pull out a strange looking head covering that draped over the shoulders.  It was full of wires and buttons and lights, but surprisingly comfortable and flexible when Arthur placed it snug to the nape of his neck.

“This one still needs a lot of work, but it’s the closest fit I have for you.  I can do this if you really want me to.”

Arthur nodded.

“Right,” said the old codger and produced an electromagnetic injector.  “Good luck.”

The next thing Arthur knew he was lying in a bed in a small, unfamiliar room.  On an apartment screen in front of him were words in the form of a note.  He read:

Everything went well.  You are fully functional.  The apartment (it’s small, but at least I got you one with a window) and surgery is all compliments of John who gave me access to his savings for this purpose just before he committed suicide.  Enjoy your new life.

Best regards,

Thoi

Arthur sat up to faint noises of hums and whirrs.  The first thing to catch his eye was his old rucksack with his paints and implements that he had been carrying when he went to the shop.  The urge to create welled up strong.  He opened his sack and found his half-finished portrait of Rich.  Then he noticed his portrait of the hybrid agent underneath and he took it out.  Not bad, he smiled to himself, allowing a moment of self-affirming pride.  If he could do more work like this one¼Then suddenly he froze and the painting nearly slipped from his hands.  Trembling, he walked over to the large window.  It was dark outside and light inside, and the glass reflected as clearly as a mirror.  He gawked at the image in the window and then back at the portrait.  It was the spitting image.

“Good God!” he muttered.  What was he?

A thousand thoughts went through his head.  Had he been freed or betrayed?  Panic welled up until he thought of his dead friends.  He couldn’t find it in himself to mistrust John, even if the guy couldn’t be trusted with his own life.  But it was still all too confusing.  He looked down at his hands.  They looked human enough.  Then he did what he had always done when thoughts could not hold what he felt.  He took out his paints and set to work.  He saw the whole picture in his mind’s eye; John poised with the lethal injection in his own hand.  The expression would have to hold the depth of complexity he felt...