The Mediator Pattern Read online

  “He drugged me,” Marcus stammered, trying to mask his confusion.

  “Impossible,” she said. “Not Mr. Belis. You fainted.”

  She was convincing.

  Reg went on speaking, “Since you ended the meeting early with your…”

  She paused, searching for the word, and then continued, “episode. Mr. Belis has provided written instruction for you.” She handed Marcus an envelope.

  “Inside you should find everything you need,” Reg asserted as she tapped the envelope with her finger. She was tired of talking to Marcus Metiline and he could tell.

  Marcus chided, “Then let me be on my way. Where’s the exit?”

  “Follow me,” she sighed.

  They moved quickly through the electric corridor. At the end the wall melted away. They hurried down a hallway and emerged in the room in which he and Reg had first met. Before long Marcus had been escorted out of the building entirely.

  Now standing where he began before he entered the godawful Tower of Belis, Marcus tore open the white envelope. All that it contained was a few lines of writing; an address.

  Marcus removed his pack of cigarettes and began to pull one out. He remembered the stale, dry smoke he had in Belis’s office and tucked the pack back into his pocket.

  Marcus hailed the first cab that passed.

  Once in the back seat, Marcus said, “Take me here,” and handed the piece of paper to the driver.

  Chapter V

  The sun had begun to set as Marcus Metiline arrived at his destination; Tranquility, California, 232 miles south of San Jose—a non-zoned territory well beyond the outskirts of town, far past the Weller Processing Plant and even farther past Trounce farms. Marcus’s shadow stood against the faded white panels of a circa-1920 farmhouse. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Four matches remained. To either side of Marcus was empty, desolate dirt road. Before him, the two story-house slouched amongst fields of dust and tumbleweeds; the farm itself had dried up years ago. The windows were boarded shut and the residence wore red 'CONDEMNED' tags all along its face. Its wrap around porch ceased half way along its path, collapsing tiredly in the dirt. The front door, or what was left of it, swung wildly in the wind, crashing closed against the crooked doorjamb then opening wide to reveal the dilapidated, shadowy interior.

  Marcus referred to the piece of paper, confirming the correctness of the address. Satisfied, he extinguished his smoke and started toward the door.

  The first stair gave way under the weight of his step. He could see insects scatter amongst the splinters as he withdrew his leg from the tattered wood. He passed over the remaining two stairs, placing himself carefully atop the leaning stoop.

  Once in the doorway Marcus noticed the silence.

  It’s absolutely serene compared to San Jose, he thought to himself.

  Marcus broke the silence, calling out as he peered inside, “Dr. Avant?”

  Only the wind responded, howling as it slithered and snaked through the cracks and crevices of the house. The whitewashed wooden panels creaked as the house swayed in time with the breeze.

  He stepped through the dimly lit entryway. The room was fully furnished with early 20th-century accents. A paisley patterned lace cloth sat atop a box television on the floor in one corner of the room. A pair of reclining chairs, whose fabric had worn away to reveal springy innards, faced the television. A thick layer of dust garnished all the surfaces of the room. Looking about, Marcus thought, Why would Belis send me here?

  Then, in his periphery, he glimpsed motion. He made his way toward the movement. As Marcus walked he saw various framed photographs of a man and his family hung askew along the tilted walls. Some photos were of weddings, some of graduations, and some of picnics—all were old and all were painted in years of dust.

  Marcus called out, “I’m here to see Dr. Avant.”

  Silence.

  He saw a figure pass across the doorway ahead of him. He headed for the doorway and found himself in the kitchen. The sun had now set and only slivers of silver moonlight shining through the slats of the boarded windows lit the room. In the gloomy light, Marcus could see the source of the movement; a shadowy figure hunched over the counter across from him. The figure turned quickly, and headed toward Marcus.

  Marcus addressed the figure, “Dr. Avant?”

  The figure didn't respond. It simply moved. As it passed Marcus, its eyes glinted in the moonlight and Marcus could see that it was a man, and he recognized him. He possessed gray shaggy hair, thick rimmed glasses, and a long, unkempt beard. His eyes were a cold blue and his cheekbones sat like knots under his parchment skin. He was the man in the photographs, older and under groomed, but this was him; this was his house.

  The old man headed for the lock-handled refrigerator beside Marcus. He opened the fridge, rummaged through the contents and shuffled back to the counter across the room. Marcus leaned over to see what the man was fiddling with inside the old refrigerator and saw nothing. The fridge was dark and empty.

  Marcus watched as the man repeated his pattern around the kitchen, from counter to fridge and back, over and over.

  The old man took no notice of the new body in the room. In fact, it seemed to Marcus as though he were being purposely ignored by this man.

  As the man repeated his path to and from the counter yet another time, Marcus realized he was not being ignored, but that the man somehow did not see him. Marcus reached out, successfully making contact. He felt a cold chill on his fingers as he grazed the man’s sleeve. Still, the man remained unhindered on his course around the kitchen, not perceiving the presence of Marcus Metiline.

  A sense of unease fell over Marcus. He hurried to the center of the room, placing himself between the fridge and the counter in an attempt to obstruct the old man.

  “Are you Avant?” Marcus spoke sternly.

  Then Marcus was alone. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, slivers of silver moonlight shined through the slats of the boarded windows. The room was as empty as the rest of the house. In the far corner of the kitchen was a thin door, remnants of faded pink drapes hung on either side of its single, boardless window.

  The door swung open loudly, startling Marcus from his confusion.

  “You’re about 92 seconds early, Marcus,” a man said from the doorway as he stared intently at the pocket watch grasped in his right hand.

  “Then again,” the man added as he snapped shut the pocket watch and tucked it away, “it’s not an exact science.”

  The man stood, his eyes intently focused on Marcus, as if anticipating a question. Then, before Marcus could get the thought from his brain to his tongue, the man said, “Yes yes. Marcus Metiline. Contracted by Colin Belis under The Belis Corporation, for a patent dispute. I am Dr. Avant. Let’s hurry up then.”

  The man motioned for Marcus to follow and turned away. Marcus collected his thoughts, came to terms with the moment, and exited the house through the thin door, following Dr. Avant.

  Avant slowed his pace so as to walk beside Marcus. In the distance, Marcus could make out the silhouette of a barn backed by the immense full moon. As they walked, Avant turned to Marcus.

  In the solid beam of the full moon, Marcus could plainly see Dr. Avant. His blue eyes sat behind thick Buddy Holly–style glasses that he incessantly repositioned as they walked. He had his gray hair slicked down with grease in all but a few spots that sprang up in tufts atop his head. He wore a white lab coat spotted with stains, and Marcus could see the top of a blue and yellow checkered Windsor knot peeking through the collar of the coat, nested between the flaps of a white high-collared button up shirt. As Marcus inspected Dr. Avant, he realized that this was the man he had seen in the photographs.

  Avant interrupted Marcus’s thoughts. “I understand you met One, or was that the last time around? I apologize. It gets difficult to keep track.”

  Dr. Avant spoke quickly. His words were clear, well-enunciated, but uttered at machine-gun speeds. It was as if each new syllable w
as more pressing than the last, and if he were to hesitate on one, then the magnitude of them all would collapse into nothing.

  “Excuse me?” the question made no sense to Marcus, and his confusion sat plainly on his face.

  “When you arrived here, did you not see a man preparing a sandwich in the kitchen?”

  Avant looked over his shoulder toward the decrepit farmhouse, “He’s rude. Won’t speak to anyone. Can’t, in fact.”

  “I’m sorry,” Marcus said, “I’m not sure I’m following. There was no one in the kitchen when you appeared.”

  Avant rebutted, “Correct. But there was.” His emphasis settled upon the final syllable of his statement.

  There was indeed, Marcus thought to himself, but it was a delusion. That man wasn’t there. It was another déjà vu, wasn’t it?

  “Did it feel like déjà vu?” Avant asked Marcus.

  Marcus had no chance to respond.

  Avant continued speaking as the two men came upon the barn, “If it felt like déjà vu, then it wasn’t just then, it was another time.”

  Marcus remained silent, listening. This man was speaking in riddles that confounded Marcus.

  “That man was there and he will be there again, and again, and again…” Avant trailed off as he unlocked the various padlocks on the barn door.

  Avant swung the unlatched door open to reveal a well lit room. The ceiling was high. Bright lights hung from the rafters, illuminating the coils, copper rods, and various tools and contraptions strewn about. Each component of the room cast its own unique shadow upon the dirt floor. The wind made its way around the room, rustling handwritten notes that were scattered about.

  Once inside, Avant shut the door and turned to Marcus. The room was still.

  “You’re a smart man,” he said, “You’ve probably even figured it out by now.”

  He held up a finger and rushed over to a plain metal desk buried by erratic stacks of papers and books. With utmost precision, he removed with his thumb and forefinger a page tucked beneath a thick, leather-bound book with the words The Harmony of the Worlds embossed into its binding. The whole event took no more than a few seconds and then Avant was face to face with Marcus again. He shook the page at Marcus.

  “This—this is One,” he said. He proceeded to explain to Marcus that One was his first experiment.

  “You see, out here things are thinner,” he said, “My experiments work.”

  Chapter VI

  You don’t remember, do you?” asked Avant, “That’s okay. I wouldn't expect that you would.” He held up the sheet of paper.

  On the sheet, Marcus could make out a pair of toroidal donut drawings bound together by a spiraling arrow. The arrow originated in the midsection of one donut and terminated in the center of the other. Below them was written, among other things, a formula that Marcus recognized. It illustrated the relationship between energy and time.

  “The arrow is the experience,” Avant said with machine-gun precision, “and the tori are anchor events; events that remain unchangeable and static.”

  Avant explained, “This first one’s center is the alpha event, event A.” He pointed at the first toroid and then the second, “Where this toroid then has a beta event, event B, that composes its center. The surfaces of the surrounding tubes of each event represent the minor events that accumulate around the alpha and beta anchors. It can be seen that such a surface allows for a near infinite number of arbitrary minor events linking alpha to beta in a causal time-like fashion. There is not only one way to get from one event to the next, but instead, for causality to be preserved, it is only important that the alpha event reaches the beta event, however that may occur.”

  He took his attention off the paper and focused on Marcus. “You see, events in time and space are coupled together by harmonic resonances like musical chords in a galactic song. It’s all about finding the right harmonic.”

  He folded the page in half so that the two donuts sat back to back and said, “This is how a set of events truly exist; a closed event loop. The arrow ends where it begins. Time does not flow like a river, Marcus. Instead, closed event loops, such as the earth around the sun, sunrise to sunset, or the hydrogens around an oxygen in the water molecule—they exist, perpetuate, and repeat, living out their possible evolutions and outcomes in a cosmic canister. All the while they maintain the ever-evolving temporal coupling between alpha event and beta event. The layman presumes, naturally but incorrectly, that one event occurs and then disappears into the past, and a new event takes its place.”

  Avant paused, taking a very brief moment to collect his thoughts. Then, with his eyes wide, said, “The interesting thing I have discovered, Marcus, is that the layman’s presumption is wrong. All sets of events in time, even those that appear to come after, or before, or beside, or atop some other event, coexist simultaneously. Past, present, and future remain perpetually entwined, indefinitely floating and joining and repeating in the temporal jelly that fills the cosmic canister.”

  He unfolded the page and began tracing his finger along the helical path of the arrow. “You see, the arrow represents experience, the path one takes from alpha event to beta event. To us, the page remains flat, like this, and time remains linear, possessing a definite beginning and end. When this page is folded, you can perceive the closed loop created. Although the human mind perceives these slices of reality to evolve or fade away and be replaced by a new event, they do not.”

  He folded the page once more, and went on, “It is only perception. The normal experiencer floats, so to speak, from one loop to the next, never remaining long enough to consciously experience the repetition that is the true substructure of the events. The human mind is a powerful thing; it is the mechanism that defines the shape and order of things.”

  He referenced Kurt Gödel’s solution to the Einstein field equations, and discussed Planck space, eigenstates, and the Zeno paradox in length. He declared motion and distance as illusory constructions. He made mention of pattern recognition, and lectured on perception and bosonic fields. He explained how the uncertainty principle was flawed, that the position and momentum of a particle are only unpredictable due to the lack of reference location when dealing with the mostly empty scale upon which they exist, and contended that the principle does not hold for the visible world. He made mention of Jung’s archetypes, Hofstadter logic, and the subconscious mind, discussing the true fabric of, “the real,” as he called it.

  Finally, he concluded “Quantum mechanics has it all wrong. It’s time that is discrete, quantized, not energy. Energy is an infinite continuum, space is entirely relative, and time is not necessarily linear.”

  It made sense to Marcus. The excited and determined ramblings of Avant gravitated toward each other in Marcus’s mind and adhered like magnets. The puzzle pieces fell together and he understood. But, now that he had a moment to speak, Marcus still had many questions. He chose wisely.

  “How do you know me?”

  Seemingly ignoring Marcus’s inquiry, the doctor continued speaking as he tucked the sheet of paper in his pocket.

  “Out here, away from the city, I have discovered something, Marcus Metiline, and it already involves you. Something inside you knows that.” His voice slowed, becoming graver with each word, “This world we live in is a fraud. It is an illusion cast upon us.”

  He turned away as he spoke, “Leave your briefcase. I’d like to show you something.”

  Avant went to a small three drawer file cabinet. From within he withdrew a small device. It consisted of three copper spheres suspended by thin wire from a common axle. The axle shone, glinting in the bright hanging lights. The device sat upright in Avant’s hand as he walked.

  “Let’s go outside,” he said.

  Outside, Avant grasped the device in his palm and began rotating it, whirling the copper balls around their base. As it gained momentum it began singing and humming, chiming and ticking. Then, as the sounds resonated through the air, things changed.
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  The cold silvery moon was replaced by a fiery golden sun. The night sky turned blue. The withered, dried up weeds were replaced with rows of thriving, blooming apple trees. The chirp of birds replaced the hollow cry of wind. The cracked brown soil was rejuvenated, given new green life. The decrepit farmhouse stood proud and glistening amongst its orchards, its panels freshly painted, its boarded windows replaced by handcrafted light blue shutters over panes of sparkling glass.

  The sound of the device blended into the background as Dr. Avant spoke, “You see, reality isn’t concrete. It is malleable.”

  He spun the device more rapidly. The blooming apple trees moved forward in time. Their blossoms shed before Marcus’s eyes, giving way to ripe, red apples. Avant plucked an apple from its branch and tossed it to Marcus. Marcus inspected the fruit and then reluctantly took a bite. The apple that didn’t exist seconds ago tasted sweet, crisp, real.

  Marcus took a second bite, and while chewing said, “So this is what Belis was afraid of? This is the device in your patent?”

  “You don’t get any less stubborn. Forget about the patent, Marcus. The patent only brought you here. It served its purpose. Belis met with you and you came here.”

  He stopped spinning the device.

  The sun flickered, the birds ceased, the moon sprang back into place, the sky turned black, the trees unmanifested, the grass regressed into dirt, and the half eaten apple, even its lingering taste, disappeared.

  Now, amongst the moonlit return of desolation, Avant said, “I know you, Marcus. You have been here before; where you are standing now. We have had this conversation, and I am going to ask something of you.”

  Marcus was still amazed by the manifestation and subsequent demanifestation of his surroundings. He spoke quietly and contemplatively, “You say I’ve been here before? Explain it to me.”

  “Let’s go back inside.”

  Avant headed for the barn. As the two men walked, Avant said, “The man in the house, shuffling about the kitchen, as I mentioned, is a failed experiment, the first. You may have noticed, he is me. Actually, he is a projection of me, a mathematical miscalculation. You see, I assigned him a temporal resonance. Although at the time I had mistaken the basic construct, and because of that, that version of me is doomed to repetition. For him, that is the only moment he will live. To us, he ages, he grows weak, and he will eventually die, but to him he is still the same man I was then, preparing that sandwich in the kitchen. The house, the contents of the fridge, they are as new and fresh as the day I abandoned them two years ago. It is a brand new experience each time. It is sad really.”