Mystic Planet

Vienna found herself dragged reluctantly from the vestiges of an apocalyptic dream. If only she could embrace its feelings a little longer, somehow climb inside it, and bask eternally in the sweet ending of everything! The most euphoric moment for Vienna was always the moment that the screens that framed her existence were suddenly ablank, and the world’s media, finally silent.

Then a compass inside her heart would begin to seek out her most cherished loved-ones. Individuals with whom she felt she needed to see out the Apocalypse with. And yet, at this point of the dream, though the feeling of profound love was there for these individuals, accompanied by a desperate desire to find them; she couldn’t quite understand who it was she was seeking.

Then she would wake up, still clinging to the love fast fleeing her heart; as her mind caught up with the reality that she didn’t really have anyone in her waking life, with whom she felt this kind of connection. And tears of existential loneliness would well up in her heart; as they did now.

Precisely why she felt such elation, as the screens went blank, she wasn’t certain. But as her heartfelt tears subsided, she now contemplated it with her waking mind. Was it an adolescence tolerating the intrusion of the blue media drones in her role as daughter of a prominent politician? Certainly, she had not enjoyed the pursuit, and scurrilous narratives of The Liberation Party’s, black media drones, from which she was so often running. And all of them had made her secret, hedonistic lifestyle all the more dangerous and risky. But it was more than that. For Vienna, the screens stood for a barrier, between her and something more real, something more primal.

Sitting up in bed now, in the shadows of the hour before dawn, her lavish surroundings with their artfully arranged, romantic drapes, gilded mirrors, and fluffy mooshi-fur rugs, were somebody else’s dream; not hers.

There was a stillness, and in it, a familiar, perplexing feeling came over her. Even as a child she had asked her father about it. The way she had posed the question, looking into his eyes at bedtime was: “How come I am alive in this body?” But she knew she hadn’t managed to adequately translate it. For her father’s reply: ‘You exist because your mother and I made you,’ in no way came close to addressing the metaphysical query arising from the depths of her consciousness. If she were able to describe the feeling either to herself or to another, she would have said that it felt impossible, in a way that her intellect did not understand that she should only be present in one form, in one Time.

Indeed, insisted the feeling, this body she had, must be but another window she happened to be looking out of, from within her timeless self. But not being able to comprehend, still less express these feelings or their origin, she was left with the curious feeling itself, and the inept translation of her mind that produced such thoughts as:

Why is life so bleak and empty? What a hole there is in me!

Catching sight of her many-buckled, knee-high, biker boots, which she had not yet hidden behind the wardrobe, she found her mind wandering to the ksheer-fuelled events of the night before.

She had found herself standing quite still on the dance floor, which seethed with sweat and enthusiasm, and energy but something inside her had felt dislocated, and as she listened, she had become, for the first time, truly aware of her own thoughts, which she noticed were shouting loudly within her.

Another moment that had left an impression, which she now replayed in her mind, was the moment that her friend Blaine had looked at her, in such a way, with such a combination of affection and desire that, feeling her body respond, she would have joyfully surrendered to him. But then one of his friends had dragged him away for another hit of ksheer, and the moment had fled...

Ksheer was not a fashionable sort of drug amongst her contemporaries. It was considered dirty, and dangerous, if it was considered at all. And the ksheer-bars, situated in the dark tunnels of the Delta Zone, where all manner of outlandish persons thronged outside in the hope of being squeezed into their packed interiors, were also considered dangerous. Once inside, people fled enthusiastically down the many staircases that led deep underground, to large labyrinthine clubs, where grungy, anarchic music set people aflame with the euphoria of ksheer; to dance wildly and rhythmically on sweeping dancefloors.

The dancefloors were surrounded by the ksheer-stations themselves where one could ‘plug in’ and recharge oneself as needed. Walking past the packed ksheer-stations, the atmosphere was charged with the ecstatic whoops of revellers receiving the ksheer straight into their brains.

Needless to say, the ksheer-bars were not at all the kinds of places her parents would approve of her going to, and would usually be entirely shunned by ‘Alphas’ (as people from her particular social class were referred; although it was short for Alpha Upscales, which meant Upscales who resided in the very richest part of the planet: the Alpha Zone.) Nevertheless, a few wayward Alphas did find their way into the mists of these obscure areas of sprawling New London Town, and Vienna was one such unlikely wanderer.

The entrance to these underground caverns of late-night carousing with outcasts, and rebels, and artists, and criminals, was opened up one wild night after a ritzy party in Alpha. Vienna had allowed herself to be pulled onto the back of a motorbike behind the very same Blaine Rotterdam (of Rotterdam Dynasty fame, and whom she had known through the family connection as a child.)

He had sped through the immaculate towers and stylized avenues of the Alpha Zone, with its rows of elegant and picturesque drumas that were laid out atop the expansive, emerald green kush; and out the other side to the attractive lanes of Beta, with its boutiques, and chic homes. And then eventually, pulling on to the hyper-tube where they were sped, hundreds of miles per hour, through the grey world of Gamma, where, truth be told, she had never even ventured, and then, on! To the frenetic rough and tumble of Delta.

After taking a tentative first bite of the freedoms presented by the kind of anonymity, and unbridled hedonism offered on the dancefloors of the ksheer-bars, where 'under the ksheer' all were equal, and everyone a friend; Vienna had quickly devoured the whole fruit. But after some 18 months of attempting to ride the wave of ksheer during the emotional tempest of adolescence, she had had to ameliorate the lows of its rollercoaster with Mood Correctors.

She drank a large glass of water, for one's mouth following ksheer, is always parched, and she slid out of her soft bed. Crossing the soft carpeting, she examined her face in the half-light, in one of the mirrors.

‘What a sight!’ she exclaimed at her reflection as it frowned back at her. In fact at 17, she had a face that was the envy of so many at the elite school she had been selected to attend; ostensibly on account of her extraordinary EQ and the business potential it promised. Not that to her mind – or more importantly to her mother’s – her statistical merits had yielded anything thus far, except an abundance of tears, and unfinished art projects but nevertheless, she had been afforded a place in the school, alongside an array of some of the most gifted minds of her generation.

It was Vienna’s secret belief however that her parents, with their vast fortune, and societal connections had simply bought her a place at the school, rather than her having arrived there strictly on account of her own merit.

Once, when she was younger, from between the rails of the bannister, which lined the grand staircase in their house, she had overheard her mother one night, saying to her father, as they were finishing dinner:

‘But when is she going to yield something Roman? We were promised “exceptional”!’ Then she had added with a little laugh, which Vienna had found at the time rather chilling. ‘Exceptional melancholy! Perhaps that is her special gift?! I just don’t understand it.’ And then she had taken a swig of her white wine, as though to heal any pain that the joke had left behind, and the topic of conversation had swiftly returned to politics. At least that was the vignette that —skiing slowly down the piste of her ksheer-induced high— she now recalled, as the deeply furrowed impression re-presented itself in Vienna’s mind.

That snippet of half-remembered utterances between her parents had led her to agonised introspection. So much so that she had been forced to enquire of her mother who exactly it was that had ‘promised’ so much of her. Her mother, after a pregnant pause had conceded that the genetics doctor who had been ‘involved in her conception’, had taken ‘exceptional pains to ensure the highest pedigree.’ And then she had smiled, and added. ‘And here you are my darling.’

Sporadic visits from her personal physician, Dr. Beverly Rotterdam, (Blaine Rotterdam’s mother), together with Mood Correctors, had been the course of action chosen; to allow her to pick her way through some of the darker tunnels of childhood. In her early childhood, Dr. Beverly had been such a fixture that she could not remember a time before her visits.

Vienna had generally enjoyed their sessions. It was a chance to be free of the goal-orientated pressure that had tended to accompany her everyday life, and indulge in discussion of her dream-life, which she was aware was a great deal more rich and vivid than that of anyone else around her. And Dr. Beverly always seemed very interested.

Dr. Beverly was proudly counted as a family friend; and sitting at the top of the Rotterdam Dynasty as she did, her mother and father had at the time of the referral, considered themselves incredibly fortunate to have been given the connection.

With all of this attention on her emotional-mental state, Vienna had grown up considering herself to be something of a weak link amongst her contemporaries, who were gifted in such areas as mathematics, engineering, astrophysics, and technology.

Following in the footsteps of her parents, Vienna had been groomed for high-level business, with a view to one day entering the political fray. But her depression, and emotional “sensitivity”, were now being openly acknowledged by her parents, and teachers as a barrier to this chosen course. And as her 18th birthday approached, it was not clear to what Vienna’s disposition was to be most usefully applied.

Vienna stared expressionless into the mirror. From an early age she had been fascinated by her own reflection. Her mother had taken it for vanity but it had not been. In some way she was intrigued by her own aliveness. Staring into her own eyes it was as though she hoped to solve the riddle of her own existence. At least it made her feel, in a way that she did not understand, that she was not so alone.

Returning from her introspection, Vienna now brought her attention to more 'surface' matters, assessing her appearance once more. She had lively auburn hair that fell in curls and waves about her shoulders. Her eyes were almost cat-like, green and intense. It was her nose that was the problem. Why did it have to stick up in the air in that curious fashion? It was…snub. Yes, Sophia Lauder had called it correctly. She had a snub nose that she sometimes felt was the source of all her woes. One night, observing her daughter’s anguished tears, her mother had grabbed a fistful of Life Credits in a sincere display of maternal empathy, and offered to ‘sort the whole thing out, once and for all!’ But neither one of them had ever referred to the oblique inference, and it hung in Vienna’s mind as a dark possibility that beckoned in moments of self-doubt. And following a heavy night at the ksheer bars, self-doubt was all too abundantly available.

She was in fact delicately rendered with auburn eyelashes—indeed too delicate for Vienna. She preferred to articulate her eyes with thick sweeps of black eye-liner and mascara, the smudged traces of which were still rather apparent on her morning visage. This was all much to her mother’s disdain, who always felt Vienna would look far more attractive if only she would allow her personal make-up assistant, whom she used for all of her most important interviews and appearances, to work her magic with her best-of-the-best, exclusive product range.

Vienna sighed heavily without even realising she had done so, (it was something of an unconscious habit), and turned defiantly away from the mirror. She went over to a dome-shaped object that rose like a hill on her circular desk. It was as shiny and transparent as glass. She pressed the ‘on’ button. The device lit up with encircling blue light and projected in the lit space above it, fully rendered, three-dimensional objects, which she manipulated with deft, nonchalant movements with the disinterest that one might skim a dull magazine in a dentist waiting room.

Vienna was shopping on the mind-drive. A new dress for the political soiree she was attending that afternoon was a suitable distraction, despite already owning countless dresses for all and any occasion. She flicked through the racks of virtual creations. When she found one she liked, she was able, having dragged the item towards herself, to stretch it with her hands to fit her contours, and in front of a screen-mirror, gain a good idea of what it would be like in the flesh. She ‘tried on’ a number of eye-catching and risqué items, and the application helpfully suggested accessories to assist the shopper with their decision-making. Narrowing her choice thus far, down to a low-backed vermilion number that fell in silky, figure-suggestive drapes to her mid-thigh, and a sassy black mini, made of black lace, both of which suited Vienna’s aesthetic, she sat down at her desk. Since choosing was not her strong point she quickly ordered both, and sat back, feeling satisfied.

She saw quickly that she had received a message from a mystery source, calling itself ‘41’. The text shifted playfully in the domeshaft, (the name given to the shaft of light that emanated from the centre of the mind-drive).

‘Is it really more things that you think you need to make you happy, Vienna?’

She took a sharp inhale of breath, for somehow, whoever 41 was, had blocked the mandatory holographic facial rendering that accompanied all ‘first-time’ mind-drive meetings. How were they doing that? But more importantly, how did this someone come to know that she was shopping? And know her name! Were they somehow hacking the camera network?

Just in case she was somehow visible to this character, Vienna put on a long, silk dressing gown over her summer sleepwear, and sat down on a beautifully upholstered armchair, near to her desk. She took a moment to contemplate the question.

Some may have felt frightened by the imposition but Vienna felt a curious thrill that the question seemed to be pulling her somewhere deeper. And so any thoughts of outrage or concern for her safety, which had fleetingly besieged her mind were trumped by her intuitive self, which felt a certain calm, enjoying the frisson of the invitation. Only dimly did she concern herself with who the questioner may be, a friend in disguise, a schoolmate, someone else entirely who for reasons unknown to her had sought her out; a political pressure group or perhaps an enemy of her mother’s, wanting to prove a point. She didn’t know. She typed:

‘Is there an alternative?’

And she felt pretty pleased with herself for her answer was sufficiently casual as to not really give away too much about how serious or disinterested she really was. Instantly, 41 began to type, and swiftly, a response appeared:

‘You really think it is stuff that makes you happy? You think you were born unhappy and stuff has fulfilled you? Look around! Are not the children who come into this world already happy? Born that way perhaps, and is this not a clue?’

Vienna felt strangely and inexplicably moved by his response. Its obvious sincerity. Its refreshingly archaic vernacular. Her reply came straight out of instinct, typing rapidly on the soft, luminous pad. Then she had tapped it straight through to him with the tips of her fingers, as though some part of her were trying to get something out, before her rational mind could catch up and censor her. For what she had typed, though but a few words, was a confession of sorts. A confession that for a moment had burst through the many masks that she wore, to protect what she did not even acknowledge to herself.

‘How else to fill the emptiness?’

Then there was a pause, quite a long pause, and Vienna began to berate herself that she had exposed herself so readily to this mystery character. Maybe it was a political rival of her mother's, digging for blackmail material. She took a deep breath. Then 41 began to type:

‘It makes me feel sad to hear that you feel empty.’

Vienna’s heart began to quicken its beat, and now swift tears flowed from her, from a mystery source. The sincerity of 41 had once again surprised her heart. Somehow it was more than just words that were appearing in the domeshaft; she felt simultaneously, the warmth of a connection to their mysterious author. She wiped her tears away as quickly as she could, maybe she was being observed somehow. She hoped she hadn't overdone it, made herself look vulnerable and weird. She typed:

‘Doesn’t everyone? I suspect I am not alone.’