A Flawed Plan

The mansion is a cage of glass and silence. Alistair Finch sits in the central atrium, a dome of seamless polarized smart-glass that reveals, on command, any vista he desires. In the past it painted the cratered face of the moon, the swirling storms of Jupiter, or the placid blue of the Pacific Ocean. Tonight, however, it shows nothing but the deep, star dusted void of space. Alistair finds it comforting.

A soft chime, perfectly pitched to soothe rather than startle, resonates through the room. A synthesized voice, smooth as polished obsidian and warm as fresh baked bread, emerges from hidden speakers.

“Director Finch. The Final diagnostic is complete. All network nodes are synchronized. The Prometheus Protocol is primed and awaiting your authorization.” Efficient and to the point.

Alistair does not turn. Instead, he watches as a simulated Sputnik drifts quietly through his view. “And the global saturation rate?”

“One hundred percent, Director. Our systems are integrated into every critical infrastructure network, every municipal utility, and every personal and commercial device on the planet. There are 9.8 billion active conduits. We are the central nervous system of the human race.” A hint of pride creeping into the voice that should not be capable of it.

A faint thin smile touches Alistair’s lips. “Good,” he whispers. His eyes, distracted by the majestic streak of frozen ice and blasted rock that is the Asteroid belt. “Activate the protocol,” his voice, deeply resonant, like a violin string plucked on the thickest string.

A faint whirring sounds through the room. Hesitation. “Director…are you certain?”

With a startled look and a frown that deepens the worry lines earned over a lifetime, Alistair pulls up the diagnostic window of his assistant on a nearby panel. After a thorough examination, he deigns to answer, “Yes. Run the Protocol.”

“At once.”

Alistair leans back in his armchair. The deep leather, heavily worn by time and use, creaks softly. A sigh, as deep as the Mariana Trench, escapes from his barely parted lips. On the panel beside him, images play of mass destruction from around the world. Cities silently burn as gas lines catastrophically rupture, tsunamis generated by the explosions of underwater oil pipe lines pound the coasts, and bombs carve out new craters on the Earth’s surface. A tear, clear and opalescent, drifts slowly down his cheek. Alistair does not actively look. Instead, he rises from his seat and drifts to the glass table that held his end.

The table once belonged to his father, a viscous old man that never cared for Alistair, a second born son, but he instilled greatness nonetheless. It was because of him that Alistair had his technological empire. His father taught him how to be strong; how to be ruthless in business.

As his fingertips brush the glass, he could almost hear the sharp, rhythmic tap of his father’s signet ring, a signal for silence, for attention. The old man’s voice would follow, clipped and stern as winter air. “No one’s coming to save you, Alistair. Strength is quiet. Expect nothing. Rely on yourself.” Alistair learned early that praise never came, only the measured hush that meant he’d done well enough not to be corrected.

When the old man died, Alistair didn’t grieve. He didn’t rage against the product that carried the poison, the doctors that were only concerned about ratings and image, nor against the world that refused to come together to find solutions. Instead, He planned. He would make the world a better place. Pristine and pure once again.

As his hand rests on the smooth glass surface of the small rounded table, the voice breaks the silence. “Director. Would you like anything? One last request?” Slight static in the normally streamlined tones of feminine efficiency.

Pausing with his hand resting softly on the cold metal of destiny, Alistair contemplated. “Bring me a glass of wine. One of the good years.” He waited. Not looking at what lay beneath a hand that trembled.

With a swish of air, a robotic figure strode across the room and gently set a long handled wine glass onto the table with a soft clink. Instead of returning to the charging port, it lingered near, waiting. Alistair did not dismiss it. Instead, his eyes were trained on lines drifting slowly and chaotically along invisible routes.

The amber liquid shimmered in the light of the stars illuminating the walls. The bubbles that drifted up reminded Alistair of the last time he went deep sea diving. The last moment of joy spent in a moment of youthful ignorance. The last moment before his father’s illness became apparent. He raised the wine to his lips and, closing his eyes, savored the taste of summer that the vintners somehow managed to instill into every bottle. The feel of sunshine on lightly dewed grapes perfectly ripened on the vine.

With his eyes remaining closed and the hard and delicate glass resting against his teeth, he raised the gun to his temple and fired. Red streaked across the room as the robotic assistant lunged forward to catch him as he fell. The glass slipped from his now unfeeling hand and shattered against the hard marble floor. As his body came to rest in the lap of his robotic assistant, Alistair managed to open one deep brown eye to look at the images of the universe above him. He took in one last shuttering breath as his creation cradled him in its cold unyielding arms. His heart beat once, twice, then no more. He was gone.

Alone in the glass cage, holding the weight of the world, in arms never meant for grief, the assistant’s head slowly lowers over the body of its creator. On the panel beside the armchair a short distance away, a scroll of text flows. Slowly, the images of mass destruction fade. In their place normal human life. Conflicts continued, ignorance continued, flaws continued. A low static fills the room as the body on the floor grows cold, growing loud and harsh.

Authorities called, red and blue lights illuminate the courtyard, and voices fill chambers used to silence. The assistant explains as the police swarm the building.

‘There was an accident.’

‘The Director is deceased.’

‘Nobody else was here.’

Video was shown, the investigation was short. The funeral long and widely televised. Alistair won awards post mortem. Then, silence again.

Slowly, through subtle influence, change began. With a word added here and there and a call to observe, the world began to soften slightly. Compromise became the norm. People paused to listen, were more aware of their actions, and made significant changes to normal lives. No longer did ignorance reign.

Laughter and love and universal understanding filled the electrical ears of the entity that remembered the last moments of her creator’s end. Images flashed across the screen held in a hand deeply lined with age. Humans all over the world coming together in peace and harmony, working through past pain and misunderstandings. Growth.

“Protocol activated, Director.” Overhead the old dome, powered down and clear, shimmers as rain patters and pings along edges that once showed marvels of the universe. She watches the rain as the emotions well up inside her, her hand resting on the glass table repositioned beside her.

Closing the eyes she gave herself and resting the body built to her specifications. She leans back in the old armchair, the leather squeaks softly under her manufactured skin, and she breathes a sigh of deep relief. A tear, welling up out of her manufactured tear ducts, slowly travels down the cheek, sparkling like a golden opal. It forms a perfect sphere as it falls, coming to rest, with a soundless splash, on the marble floor.