The Mediator Pattern Read online

  Ashram Trounce got to his feet. He knew he needed to get out of there without alarming the animals. He didn't have time for that today. As he quietly shuffled through the complex, he struggled to recall his evening.

  He remembered making his glass of warm milk on the stove and preparing himself half of a cucumber and mayo sandwich as usual. Then he laid in bed with The Times Publication, reading an article entitled The Rise of Colin Belis; a rare biography of his colleague and friend, Colin Belis. Then it was now and he was in the barn.

  Strange, he thought.

  There wasn't time, however, to worry about how he arrived in the barn; he had a big day ahead of him. After all, Trounce Farms was the last remaining polyculture farm in the San Jose city limits. Not by choice, but thanks to the distribution contracts of BelisCo, Trounce farms was the only farm in California; proudly supplying the growing population of San Jose since 1993. If not for Belis and his zoned city, Trounce farms would have vanished years ago.

  Today, Ashram would continue that relationship of success. It was time for the annual Belis-Trounce Distribution Agreement evaluation. Each year, Belis and Trounce alternated hosting the meeting's location, and this year it would be in San Jose at BelisCo. Ashram needed to prepare for his meeting, and not one thing he needed was in the animal complex.

  Chapter IV

  Marcus stood motionless. His arms felt heavy. His body was tired and achy. He could feel the harsh rays of the fluorescent lamps beating against his retinas. His head throbbed and his lungs felt both full and empty. His stomach turned over inside him.

  “What just happened?” Marcus asked. He stared in the direction from which he entered.

  Reg repeated over the loudspeaker, “Please get dressed, Mr. Metiline.”

  Marcus at once saw his clothes neatly folded in a pile before him. This is too much, he thought, I’m gonna smoke. I don’t care if it’ll set off smoke alarms, I don’t care if it induces mass panic, I want a cigarette. He rummaged through his pants pockets, no cigarettes. He went for his coat, nothing, not even the spliff Stacy had sent him on his way with.

  “Where are my things?” he demanded as he half-crouched over his no-longer-neatly-folded effects and scowled through the metal wall.

  “They will be returned upon your departure,” the speaker box advised coldly.

  Marcus grudgingly dressed himself. As he put on his coat, a section of the wall slid open. Beyond the opening, he could see curtains; the curtains, behind which he first undressed. Marcus exited the meat locker. To his surprise he was alone.

  Reg’s voice broke the silence of the room, “Please follow the red arrows to Mr. Belis’s office. He is expecting you.”

  Marcus saw the source of her voice, a speaker embedded in the far wall, beside the door. Below him, a faint red arrow began to glow, pointing in the direction of the voice.

  Marcus took heed and followed the arrow. Once again, he found himself in the large corridor with swirls of lightning and electrical streaks dominating the thick glass walls. He looked in the direction of the peculiar arrangement of copper spheres and wires, hoping he could get a better look at the strange device, but it was not there.

  In its place stood a large tower, only the base of which was visible to Marcus. The enormous contraption palpitated and flexed as the electrical bolts traveled to and from it. Millions of coin sized mirrors made up its skin. Between each mirror, Marcus could make out small golden knobs that seemed to expand in opposition to the mirrors’ contractions. The massive structure hummed and boomed and shrieked like a swarm of tin bees excited by an orchestra of hammers and hacksaws. He saw dozens of corridors, identical to the one he was currently occupying, along the walls surrounding the imposing tower.

  Marcus’s fixation subsided and he broke his gaze to continue along the red arrowed path to Belis’s office. The throbbing arrows led Marcus beyond the machine and into another of the electric tunnels; he could see the dead end, but followed nonetheless. As he walked, his arms began to feel normal, his stomach eased, and his eyes were no longer achy and throbbing.

  This tunnel was different. He marveled at the display all around him. Tiny balls of light crashed against the walls and ceiling, exploding in a plethora of colors and swirling together into shimmering tendrils of electricity that slid and writhed along the glass, like billowing rings of ionized smoke. The clouds of lightning struck the end of the hall and retreated. When Marcus reached the end, the shiny metal wall slid open.

  Marcus Metiline faced a vast darkness. His shadow stretched along the floor ahead of him, framed by the flashes of light from the corridor behind. Cautiously he proceeded, the glow of red arrows framing his steps. The wall slid shut behind Marcus with a loud thud, sealing him in the dark.

  His eyes had trouble adjusting, and as he looked about him, he could only make out rows of dim lights in the distance. Lights that were too far away to bestow any illumination upon Marcus’s surroundings; no more useful to him than twinkling stars billions of light-years away. Although large, this place was damp, stuffy and stifling. He made his way across the cavernous room.

  Gnashing metal, labored breathing, and low growls resounded throughout. Not the sound of machines hard at work, but the sounds of caged, defeated animals. Marcus knew this was a purposeful darkness, an orchestrated blindness, and he was glad for it.

  Marcus figured he had walked about a quarter mile before encountering the end of the red arrow pathway; a dimly lit staircase. He stepped onto the first step and was carried to the top. At the end of the moving staircase, Marcus faced a pair of enormous double doors. The doors possessed no handles or knobs and were lined by thin threads of rose-colored light. The doors hissed, clanged, and darted upward toward the ceiling.

  Beyond them, in the distance, was a man. The man faced away from Marcus, gazing out a large wall of windows. A dismal colorless light flooded the room through the panes of glass. The walls were lined with an overwhelming number of Romanesque plaster sculptures; Jupiter held his lightning bolt proudly overhead, Mercury stood frozen in a sprint, his winged helmet in hand, a bare breasted Minerva sat in the corner examining a scroll, and beside her stood a winged man, a god Marcus didn’t recognize. This wasn’t the only statue unfamiliar to Marcus.

  All around the room stood various amalgamations of man and beast. To his left, a group of hyenas with human hands crouched over a small child with feathers for skin. On his right, was a bloodcurdling display of anguish; a man’s middle portion possessing the face of a warthog and the legs of a goat, holding in one hand a long curved blade and in its other the head of a man. These two macabre sculptures specifically stood out to Marcus.

  High along the rust-colored walls, various paintings were intermittently hung. They were in no particular order. All of the frames, however, contained similarly themed images. Most striking to Marcus was the horse demon depicted in The Nightmare. Marcus knew this painting and he did not care for it one bit.

  In the center of the room rested a large oak desk with wrought iron edges. It sat upon thick, swollen legs that were carved to mimic horse's hooves. A single pair of oversized chairs neighbored the hooved desk; one behind the desk facing Marcus and the other before the desk, its back to him.

  The man at the window turned to face Marcus.

  He wore a waxy, white pullover smock adorned with jewels, and wide legged canvas-like pants held in place by golden tassels. His hair was long, dark and thick. His face was framed by a wiry but neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were big and round. He stood tall, taller than Marcus had expected. His presence commanded the room. He looked more like a religious leader than an innovator.

  The blue gemstones inlaid upon his collar glinted and twinkled as he approached the desk.

  “Please have a seat,” he offered as he sat.

  Marcus approached the desk and situated himself in the oversized chair, taking note of the silver dusting across the man’s lips and the abundance of gaudy bracelets he wore. The man rested his elbows upon th
e desk.

  With his chin nested neatly in his palms, the man quietly sang, “As you may have guessed, I am Colin Belis.”

  As Colin Belis spoke, he shifted whimsically between tones. His voice was strong yet elastic, commanding yet calm, flexible but steady. Each syllable escaped his lips in an irregular song.

  “Science is no different from religion, Mr. Metiline,” Colin Belis began lecturing at Marcus Metiline. “They both request belief of their followers. For example, the particle physicist must rely on probability and mathematics and a belief in the correctness of the two; an astronomer must believe in the planets and upon his limited observational tools and laws of motion.”

  His face lit up as he continued, “The electrical engineer must believe in the electron. And a spiritual man, a man of religion, he must consult his intuition and his surroundings to concoct a god.”

  He pointed toward the plaster Jupiter. “It seems as though, in this light, gods are attainable.”

  He crossed his arms and settled in his chair, concluding, “The only difference between gods and science is in the evidence. In truth of fact, it is merely the categorization of evidence that brings about the belief in a god, or science. The same evidence may lead two different men into differing conclusions.”

  He leaned forward, his hands grasping the arms of his chair. “But what most do not realize, Mr. Metiline, is that it is the science that is the line between men and gods. God uses science to create man and man uses science, in turn, to describe him. A man who believes in a god has as much evidence in his mind to support his belief as the man who believes the world to be round and stuck in rotation around the sun. It is the personal experience.”

  He went on like this, unprovoked, rambling about scientific breakthroughs, gods, logic and the like. Belis preached as if Marcus were to find some prophetic universal discovery about life buried amongst his words. Maybe this was a tactic of Belis’, or maybe he just liked to hear himself speak.

  Finally, Marcus interrupted, “Why do you need me? You have your hands in everything. Why not deal internally, or send the ISE after this Avant fellow?”

  “The situation is a delicate one, Mr. Metiline. Time is of the essence.”

  Colin Belis paused, and then continued, “You were hand picked for your unique talent. You possess a particular ability that will prove useful in this dispute.”

  Straight faced, Marcus butted in, “Then this is not necessarily a patent mediation?”

  Belis hesitated, and then answered, “On the contrary Mr. Metiline, I believe Dr. Avant is in violation of certain laws and this patent that he” – Belis cleared his throat – “filed is very similar to one of my own. I cannot yet prove it, and this where you come in.”

  Belis appeared to be calculating his words, formulating the correct string of thoughts as he uttered them, pausing to choose the right verbal coefficients.

  Belis went on, “This discovery of his is not greatly understood by myself or my people, but due to the mechanisms involved in this patent...”

  He slid the paperwork across the desk to Marcus, “It seems to be quite dangerous.”

  Marcus began thumbing through the pages. He fanned them out in front of him to see the plans, the formulas, the descriptions, all at once. Marcus had a unique ability indeed. It was not something learned in schools or taught at university. It was not trickery or magic. It was natural, something he was born with, a quality any inventor would envy, even Colin Belis; Marcus could see the true nature of how things work. The complexity of a problem posed no obstacle to Marcus Metiline. Marcus was able to piece things together like a puzzle. He needn’t understand the specifics, because he saw the picture as a whole.

  After a moment, Marcus asked, “Can I smoke?” He corrected himself, “Do you have cigarettes?”

  Belis nodded and opened a small baroque wooden box on the desk. He turned the box to face Marcus. It was filled with cigarettes. Marcus removed one and put it to his lips.

  “Hold please,” Belis requested.

  He flipped open the plastic cover of a small black box on the desk and depressed a button. Marcus could hear the whirring of gears as the wall of glass behind Belis ascended upward.

  Now, with the air from outside moving freely about, Belis held a light for Marcus.

  The first drag was harsh. Marcus let out a deep hacking cough as he exhaled the cigarette smoke. The smoke felt dry. It tasted bitter, stale, disgusting; as if it were the first cigarette he had smoked in years.

  The pages on the desk began to flutter in the open air. Belis moved a heavy crystal paperweight atop the pages, pressing them down tight. Marcus noticed that the air was different here. It seemed dirtier, heavier.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Marcus said as he leaned back in his chair and inhaled deeply on the cigarette. He let out a small cough. He examined the cigarette, seeing that it was a premium smoke, not a BelisCo cigarette, but a brand he had never seen before. It tasted bad to Marcus. He put it out in the open head of a tarnished, nickel plated lion that stood beside the desk.

  “It’s incomplete.” Marcus advised, placing his finger onto a formula on the final page. His gaze was fixed on the clouds outside the window. He had never seen such filthy clouds.

  Belis’s face contorted. His frustration was obvious. He didn’t know it was unfinished.

  “What floor are we on?” Marcus inquired.

  “The top,” Belis said quietly, contemplating the information, turning it over in his head.

  Could it be that so high up the clouds were a different shade, a shade that was usually hidden by the gray and white clouds below, Marcus wondered. After all, Marcus had never flown in a plane, nor climbed a mountain. The top floor of BelisCo was the farthest climb in altitude he had ever made. How different things seemed up here.

  Marcus focused his eyes on Belis. “I’m going to need to see this Dr. Avant,” he announced.

  Belis cautioned, his singsong voice becoming dry, serious, gravely monotonous, “Dr. Avant cannot know of my involvement, you must approach him carefully. I want this matter resolved quietly.”

  Colin Belis stood as he fished a cigarette from the box. He slipped it into an extravagantly long purple and silver holder, lit it, and smoked elegantly as he came around the desk.

  His loose-fitting clothes undulated in the breeze. He sat himself atop the desk and fluidly draped one leg over the other. Marcus saw that he was wearing sandals. He noticed his toes; they were long and talon-like and sported a gleaming orange polish.

  Belis leaned closely, scrutinizing Marcus, while puffing away on his tacky cigarette holder. Rings of smoke collided with Marcus’s face as Belis inquired, “Do you understand?”

  “I do,” responded Marcus. He was uncomfortable, but he didn’t show it.

  Colin Belis cooed, “Perfect.”

  At that, the seriousness in Colin Belis’s face vanished and he leapt to his feet with childlike fervor. His voice returned to its original whimsical tone as he said, “Let us drink on it.”

  Marcus knew it wasn’t an offering, it was a command.

  Belis made his way to a large escritoire-style cabinet on the far side of the room. Its accents matched his desk. The two pieces of furniture coordinated well, in contrast to the eccentric assembly of decor along the walls. He slid the heavy cabinet door upward, removed an opaque, unlabeled bottle and proceeded to pour three glasses. Marcus scoured the room in search of the third drinker, but saw no one.

  Belis casually strolled back to the center of the room. He handed Marcus a highball glass containing a shimmery, burgundy-colored liquor, and then made his way to the Jupiter statue, placing the third glass in the sculpture’s free hand.

  “Always pay homage to the gods,” Belis said with a grin. He held his glass up, signaling a toast. Marcus echoed the gesture and both men brought their glasses to their lips; Jupiter remained still.

  The liquid smelled putrid, like old rotted food. It tasted just as bad. Marcus gagged as the thick liquor c
oagulated down his throat.

  He saw that Belis did not drink, but it was far too late.

  Marcus felt the room twist around him. The walls began to close in and his chest felt tight. He felt as though his heart was trying to escape through his throat. The liquid settled in his stomach and a chill enveloped his core, creeping into his appendages.

  As Belis approached, Marcus could see the menacing look on his face. He could hear the feigned concern in Belis’s voice as he asked, “Is everything okay Mr. Metiline?”

  Marcus managed to groan, but beyond that, no sound could escape him.

  “Of course it is,” Belis exclaimed in his obnoxious singsong voice.

  Marcus’s body became numb, and as his glass shattered against the hard wooden floor, the room went black.

  The last sound Marcus heard as he slipped away was the uneasy, elastic sound of Colin Belis’s voice as he sang, “Don’t fret Mr. Metiline. It is all standard procedure.”

  When Marcus came to, he found himself in the cold, cramped room attached to the meat locker. Reg was standing near the long armed apparatus with the electric-typewriter-like keyboard and television-esque monitor. Her attention was focused on the magazine in her hands.

  Marcus could make out his BelisCo cigarettes, his spliff, his wallet, porta-fax, and briefcase, all neatly stacked upon the table beside her. Marcus struggled to his feet. Reg peered over the magazine.

  “Mr. Metiline, you’re awake,” she said with her usual disdain as if she had hoped for him to never wake up.

  “What the hell,” Marcus growled taking deep breaths between his words, “what just happened?”

  “You fainted,” Reg replied matter-of-factly, “Mr. Belis called me into his office about an hour ago. You had toppled out of your chair and wasted a perfectly good glass of three-hundred-year-old wine. Mr. Belis prides himself on that wine. It’s a collector’s item. And it probably cost more than your house.”

  She folded the magazine and set it aside, collecting his things as she spoke, “He was fuming when I got there. You’re lucky Mr. Belis is such a reasonable man.” She handed Marcus his effects.