Infinite Chapter 6

 Infinite Chapter 6

Year XB-3, West Continent

In the year XB3, on the vast and shimmering West Continent, the Akira family lived a life unlike any other. Their home was a sleek, silver flying saucer that glided effortlessly through the skies, powered not by engines or fuel, but by the collective mind of its inhabitants. Ra Mon Akira, the father, was a skilled nomad pilot who belonged to a clan of wandering saucer-dwellers. His wife, Del, was a sharp-witted and resourceful woman, while their daughter, Akiromi, was a spirited and mischievous child who always carried her beloved teddy gummy bear, a relic from a world long forgotten.

When Ra Mon’s vacation from work finally arrived, the family decided to break away from their clan and embark on an adventure to the legendary Red Pyramid in the southern desert. As their saucer soared over endless stretches of golden sand and swaying palm trees, Ra Mon and Del found themselves bickering over trivial matters—whether the saucer’s temperature was too cold or if they had packed enough snacks for the journey. Meanwhile, Akiromi sat in the back, clutching her teddy bear and gazing out at the vast, open sky.

Suddenly, her eyes widened in terror. The clouds above began to swirl and twist, forming the shape of enormous reptilian eyes that glared down at her. A low, guttural growl echoed through the air, sending shivers down her spine. It was just like the nightmares she had been having—monsters in the sky, watching her, waiting for her. She screamed, “Daddy! The monsters are back!”

Ra Mon chuckled, turning to his daughter with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, little starling. Those monsters can’t get into the matrix. They’re just shadows, tricks of the light. Besides, what do you call a scared reptile in the sky? A *cloud-saur*!” He laughed at his own joke, but Akiromi wasn’t amused. Tears streamed down her face as she cried, “I don’t want to be in the matrix anymore! I don’t want to see the monsters!”

Ra Mon’s expression softened, and he gently patted her head. “You’re safe, Akiromi. I promise. The matrix protects us, and so do I.” He gave her a warm hug before returning to his playful argument with Del, who rolled her eyes at his terrible puns.

As they approached the Red Pyramid, its reddish-gold surface shimmered like liquid fire under the blazing sun. The saucer descended, and the family entered a hidden portal within the pyramid. In an instant, they were teleported across the continent, emerging from the crystalline Blue Pyramid in the frozen north. The landscape outside was a stark contrast to the desert they had left behind—barren, icy, and eerily silent.

The family’s squabbling continued, growing louder and more heated as they navigated the icy skies. Suddenly, their saucer was intercepted by a group of sky pirates, their jagged, rusted ships closing in like predators. Ra Mon’s hands flew to his temples as he concentrated, using his mind to maneuver the saucer with precision. Del clutched Akiromi tightly, shielding her from the chaos. After a tense few moments, the pirates vanished as quickly as they had appeared, their ships disappearing into the clouds.

Shaken but unharmed, the family sat in silence for a moment. Del let out a deep breath, her hands trembling. Ra Mon turned to her, his usual bravado replaced by a rare moment of vulnerability. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have let things get so out of hand.” Del nodded, her anger melting away as she leaned into his embrace. “We’re okay,” she whispered. “We’re together.”

Akiromi, still clutching her teddy bear, looked out at the frozen tundra below. The monsters in the sky were gone, replaced by the soft glow of the northern lights. For the first time in a long while, she felt safe. Ra Mon glanced back at her and winked. “See? No monsters. Just us, the stars, and a whole lot of ice.”

As their saucer continued its journey through the icy expanse, the Akira family found solace in each other’s company. The skies were vast and unpredictable, but as long as they were together, they knew they could face whatever lay ahead.

———

California, 2085

The studio was a chaotic blend of retro futurism and post-modern clutter. Neon lights buzzed overhead, casting a faint pink glow over the mismatched furniture and walls plastered with holographic posters of Jo Pogo’s past guests. Fausto Mendez sat awkwardly on a worn leather couch, his gut spilling over his belt as he adjusted his VR Beta glasses. Across from him, Jo Pogo lounged in a beanbag chair, his long, unkempt hair tied back in a loose ponytail. He wore a tank top that read *“Brah, What Even Is Reality?”* and sipped from a can of synthetic kombucha.

“Welcome back, brah,” Jo said, his voice a gravelly mix of surfer drawl and military bark. “We’re here with Fausto Mendez, great-grandson of the legendary Ramon Atila, and Jeremy Carter, a programmer who’s been working on some wild stuff with consciousness transfer. Let’s dive in, brah. Humans can now recreate themselves and store their memories on a server. What does that even mean for, like, humanity, man?”

Fausto cleared his throat, his eyes darting to Jeremy, a tall, lean Black man with a sharp jawline and a calm, analytical demeanor. Jeremy sat with his hands folded, a faint smile playing on his lips as if he already knew where the conversation was headed.

“Well,” Fausto began, his voice trembling slightly, “it’s a fascinating development, but I think it’s important to remember the human element. Ramon Atila, my great-grandfather, believed in the power of art and storytelling to connect us, to remind us of our humanity. This technology… it’s impressive, but it risks losing the soul of what makes us human.”

Jo nodded, his expression unreadable behind his mirrored sunglasses. “Deep, brah. Deep. But, like, what if this is the next step in human evolution? What if we’re, like, meant to upload ourselves and become immortal or whatever?”

Jeremy leaned forward, his voice smooth and measured. “I think it’s less about evolution and more about understanding the nature of reality. If we can store consciousness, it raises questions about what’s real and what’s simulated. Are we already living in a matrix-like construct? This technology could be the key to finding out.”

Fausto’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like where this was going. “Ramon Atila’s work was about exploring the human condition, not escaping it. His MARS series was a meditation on identity, love, and the struggle for meaning in a chaotic universe. This… this feels like a distraction from what really matters.”

Jo raised an eyebrow. “But, like, isn’t identity kinda fluid, brah? I mean, if we can upload our consciousness, does it even matter what body we’re in? Couldn’t we, like, become whoever we want?”

Fausto shook his head vehemently. “No. Ramon believed in the integrity of the individual. He saw art as a way to preserve that integrity, to remind us of who we are and where we come from. This technology… it’s a threat to that.”

Jeremy chuckled softly. “Or it’s an opportunity to expand our understanding of identity. If we can recreate ourselves, we’re not limited by biology or circumstance. We can explore new ways of being, new ways of thinking. Isn’t that what art is all about?”

Fausto glared at him. “Art is about truth, not escapism. Ramon’s work was grounded in the real world, in the struggles and triumphs of real people. This… this is just a gimmick.”

Jo held up a hand, cutting them off. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, brah. Let’s not get too heated. I’m more interested in the moral implications, you know? Like, if we can recreate ourselves, what happens to the original? Are we, like, killing ourselves every time we upload? And what about, like, consent? Can someone upload you without your permission?”

Jeremy nodded thoughtfully. “Those are valid concerns. But I think the bigger question is whether we’re ready to take responsibility for this kind of power. If we can recreate ourselves, we need to ask what kind of world we want to create. Are we building a better future, or just repeating the same mistakes in a new form?”

Fausto seized the opportunity to steer the conversation back to Ramon. “That’s exactly what Ramon was trying to do with his art. He wanted to create a better world, one where people could see themselves reflected in his stories and find meaning in their lives. But now… now his legacy is being twisted into something grotesque. Have you seen the Non-Binary MARS Babies? It’s an abomination.”

Jo laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “Oh, brah, I saw those. Wild stuff. But, like, isn’t that just how things go? Art evolves, man. You can’t control it.”

Fausto’s face reddened. “It’s not evolution. It’s exploitation. Ramon’s work was about depth, about challenging the audience to think and feel. This… this is just cheap sensationalism.”

Jeremy interjected, his tone calm but firm. “But isn’t that the risk with any technology? It can be used for good or bad. The question is how we choose to use it. If we’re not careful, we could end up creating a world where nothing is real, where everything is just a simulation.”

Fausto turned to him, his voice rising. “Exactly! That’s why we need to hold on to what makes us human. We need to remember the values that Ramon stood for—integrity, authenticity, and the power of art to connect us.”

Jo leaned back, his hands behind his head. “Heavy stuff, brah. But, like, what if the future isn’t about holding on? What if it’s about letting go and embracing the chaos?”

Fausto opened his mouth to respond, but Jeremy beat him to it. “Or maybe it’s about finding a balance. We can embrace new possibilities without losing sight of what makes us human. That’s the challenge—and the opportunity.”

Fausto slumped back in his seat, defeated. He had tried to steer the conversation toward Ramon’s legacy, but it had spiraled into a debate about the nature of reality and the ethics of technology. He felt like a relic, a man out of time, clinging to a world that no longer existed.

As the podcast wound down, Jo turned to the camera with a grin. “Thanks for tuning in, brah. Remember, reality is what you make of it. Until next time, stay woke.”

The lights dimmed, and Fausto removed his Beta glasses, his hands trembling. He looked at Jeremy, who gave him a sympathetic smile.

“You fought the good fight,” Jeremy said. “But maybe it’s time to accept that the world has moved on.”

Fausto shook his head, his eyes welling with tears. “I can’t. Ramon’s legacy is all I have left.”

Jeremy placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then maybe it’s time to create something new. Something that honors his spirit without being trapped by the past.”

Fausto didn’t respond. He just sat there, staring at the floor, as the neon lights flickered overhead and the world moved on without him.

————- 

Queens, 2018

Ramon Atila pulled his black hoodie tighter around his face, the fabric brushing against the stubble on his cheeks. The late afternoon light filtered through the stained-glass windows of the small Catholic church in Queens, casting fractured colors across the pews. His earbuds were in, but the sound of Michio Kaku’s voice explaining the possibility of digitally recreating humans felt distant, almost irrelevant, as Ramon’s mind churned with the weight of his life. He paused the video, the professor’s voice cutting off mid-sentence, and slid to his knees, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.

“God,” he whispered, his voice trembling, “I don’t even know where to start. My mom… she’s gone. Just like that. And now Maria’s pregnant. A boy. A son. Me, a dad. How? I don’t even know what a father is supposed to be. I never had one. Just a ghost who left us behind.”

Ramon’s head bowed lower, his hood slipping forward. “I’ve done stupid things, God. You know that. I’ve been angry, reckless, lost. But I’m trying. I’m really trying. This graphic novel… it’s my shot. My way out. But I’m scared. Scared You’ll be mad at me for writing science fiction, for imagining a world where humans might recreate themselves, where technology might… I don’t know, play God. But it’s not about that. It’s about hope. About creating something that matters. Like Star Wars. That franchise… it taught me more about being a good person than my own father ever did. About loyalty, sacrifice, love. I want to give my son that. I want to give him a better story than the one I got.”

He paused, swallowing hard. “I just… I need Your help. I don’t want to mess this up. I don’t want to be like him. I want to be better. For Maria. For my son. For my sister. For me.”

Ramon stayed there for a moment longer, the silence of the church wrapping around him like a blanket. Then, with a deep breath, he stood, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. As he turned to leave, a commotion near the church entrance caught his attention. A man, his face red with anger, was shouting at the priest, gesturing wildly toward a Muslim couple holding a food basket.

“After everything this city’s been through!” the man yelled. “You’re just gonna hand out food to them? On 9/11? Are you kidding me?”

Ramon’s jaw tightened. He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tension. “What’s the Christian thing to do here? Turn away people who need help? Or give to anyone, no matter who they are?”

The priest, a thin man with a reptilian gaze, chuckled nervously, trying to placate the angry New Yorker. “Now, now, let’s not make a scene. We’re all God’s children, aren’t we?”

But Ramon wasn’t buying it. He could see the priest’s discomfort, the way his eyes darted to the Muslim couple as if they were a liability. “You’re just doing this to avoid bad press,” Ramon accused, his voice rising. “You don’t actually care about helping people. You’re just pretending to be a good Christian.”

The priest’s smile faltered, his reptilian features tightening. “Young man, this is a house of God. Show some respect.”

“Respect?” Ramon shot back. “Respect is earned. And you’re not earning it.”

The Muslim couple stood silently, their eyes wide with gratitude and fear. Ramon turned to them, nodding slightly. “Take the food. You deserve it as much as anyone else.”

As he walked out of the church, the cool evening air hitting his face, a voice called out to him. “Hey, man!” Ramon turned to see an old white hippy with long, graying hair and a tie-dye shirt. The man grinned, giving Ramon a thumbs-up. “That was far out, man. Really far out. Standing up for what’s right… that’s what it’s all about.”

Ramon nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks,” he said quietly. As he walked away, the weight of the day still heavy on his shoulders, he felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could be the man his son needed him to be.

——- 

1519, France

The candle flickered, casting long shadows across the cluttered room. Leonardo da Vinci lay in his bed, his body restless, his mind a tempest of ideas. His once-fine clothes were now torn rags, his hair long and greasy, clinging to his face like the tendrils of some wild vine. Wealth had not spared him from the chaos of his own genius. He tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around his legs, until he finally sat up with a groan.

"Bitch, I can’t sleep," he muttered to the empty room, his voice hoarse and tinged with amusement. He reached for the glass of water on his bedside table, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. His eyes wandered to the corner of the room, where the Mona Lisa sat on an easel, her enigmatic smile glowing faintly in the candlelight. He had finally finished her after years of labor, and yet, as he stared at her, he couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

He remembered the day he had first sketched the outline of the model, her face fresh and unfamiliar. But over the years, as he painted and repainted, her features had shifted, subtly at first, then more boldly, until she bore traces of his own visage. Wasn’t it strange, he thought, how we imprint ourselves onto the things we create? How we lose sight of the original and replace it with pieces of our own soul?

The thought lingered, but it was quickly overtaken by another, more dangerous one. Parallel universes. What if they existed? What if, somewhere out there, another Leonardo da Vinci lay in another bed, in another room, pondering the same questions? What if that Leonardo had made different choices, pursued different passions, lived a life slightly—or vastly—different from this one? The possibilities were endless, dizzying. He chuckled to himself, imagining the Church’s reaction if he ever dared to share such ideas. They’d probably burn him at the stake—or worse, declare him mad.

He caught himself, the laughter dying on his lips. "Forgive me, God," he whispered, crossing himself hastily. "I speak only in jest." But the thoughts lingered, swirling in his mind like the smoke from the dying candle. Eventually, exhaustion overtook him, and he slumped back onto the bed, his eyes closing as the weight of his own brilliance dragged him into a restless sleep. The Mona Lisa watched over him, her smile as inscrutable as ever, as if she knew all the secrets of the universe—and found them infinitely amusing.

AtilA