The Aristotle Reaction Chronicles, Episode 1.
By Roger Woehl
The Story if Fiction. The Game is Real.
Historical Note
In 354 BC the prolific Greek philosopher, Aristotle, made his most profound discovery; a simple fact of reality that revealed the source of all knowledge, truth, science and most significantly, the very meaning and purpose of life.
In the following two millennia some of Aristotle’s works survived, however, this most profound discovery remained lost to all but a few. Those few nurtured the discovery with hopes of unleashing its power for the benefit of mankind. Centuries of war and turmoil passed and the discovery remained a secret, kept repressed by the powerful forces that ruled western civilization.
This is about to change…
PART I
Chapter 1.
Fog was the only thing rolling over the Golden Gate Bridge; traffic was stopped. Wisps of cold white mist blew silently over the well formed lines of expensive automobiles that sat motionless. In a black SUV stuck near mid span, a young, well dressed man with blond hair and piercing blue eyes sat quietly waiting for the inevitable.
He turned on the radio hoping for news to confirm that he had not arrived too early or too late to witness the event first hand. "…San Francisco is paralyzed as Trade Summit protesters have broken through the police barricades. Activists are spray-painting slogans on buildings and stopping traffic on all routes in and out of The City. A large group carrying a banner reading, ‘End Global Warming Now,’ has brought traffic to a standstill along the Embarcadero. On the Golden Gate Bridge traffic is stopped as… "
He flicked off the radio satisfied with his good timing and took a deep contemplative breath. He rolled down his window, felt the cold sea air, and listened. Far off in the foggy distance he heard the sounds of protest, and he knew the rioters were coming.
Chapter 2.
Tall, lean, and unshaven, Edward Bertrand marched forward instep with his fellow activists, closing the gap to the riot squad. Behind the wall of armed men lay their objective, the Golden Gate Bridge with its orange towers extending into the dark thickening fog. Nearby, cameras stood ready to capture the inevitable conflict in time for the nightly news.
Edward ran point, leading ‘Students for a Green Tomorrow,’ the activist group he founded. They drove him, physically and spiritually, towards the riot squad hiding behind transparent shields. Euphoric, he imagined his professor’s pleasure in learning his star pupil was leading this heroic charge. Today Professor Milford, like the rest of the world, would witness their brave stand against corporate greed.
Clad in green shirts, his troop surged forward, pushing him with their passion. His army, like himself, was ready to make sacrifices. Heather, to his right, was a film major with dreams of shaping the culture. Jim, on his left, studied law with the goal of ending corporate destruction of animal habitats.
“Gas masks on,” shouted Edward like the drill they had practiced a dozen times. “Remember, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.”
The events were unfolding just as he and Heather had sketched in story boards. Each special effect and news shot was planned to achieve the maximum exposure. Even the news cameras were positioned as he’d advised them.
The next crowd pulse moved him to within a foot of the cop behind his transparent shield. Suddenly, Edward’s abstract conflict with corporate America was concretized in the face of the officer determined to stop him. The events that led him here flashed through his mind. He recalled how three weeks ago, Professor Milford, dean of the philosophy department, had invited him to a private meeting. A great man, he treated Edward like a peer rather than a mere student of philosophy. When their conversation turned to the upcoming Trade Summit, the professor asked for Edward’s advice. “Someone should stop it,” he said resolutely. The professor heartily agreed saying, “It is a shame that more intellectual leaders are not willing to stand against the greed of the corporate elite.” Lying in his dorm room that same night, Edward conceived of a brilliant idea now coming to fruition.
His thoughts returned to his mission. Over his shoulder hung long ropes and mountain climbing gear while others of his troop carried implements that would ensure their message was emblazoned across every newspaper and TV station in the country.
“Far enough,” he commanded, his voice muffled by his gas mask. He felt the crowd continue to advance and he pushed back to halt the progressing mass.
“STOP!” he yelled again, but the pressure from behind continued to build until his face was pressed against the police shield. Others were making the same urgent plea to “Stop”, but the throbbing pressure continued to build. His euphoria was turning to panic as he was shoved harder against the shield. The gas mask hid his fearful expression from the officer who looked ever more determined. The relentless pressure made it difficult to breathe. He cinched his arms tight to support his comrades, but Heather’s arms were limp. Her pale masked face was pressed against a shield and her eyes were rolling slowly upwards.
The officer before Edward saw the unconscious girl, turned to his partner and shouted, “She’s being crushed, let her through.” They moved their shields to create a small gap in the wall and as they did Heather’s limp body fell through the crack to the ground.
Edward saw his opportunity and lunged forward. He wedged his body between the shields, prying them open to release the pent up pressure behind him. In the next moment he flowed through the gap with a torrent of people rushing past the blockade and streaming onto the bridge.
Heather’s body vanished in the violent flow, but Jim remained at his side as they sprinted to their planned rendezvous mid span. The fog grew ever thicker, obscuring their victorious charge, and alas leaving Edward dismayed; the news cameras would miss his dash to glory.
Chapter 3.
Through an open car window, cool calming air flowed onto the blond haired man who sat mid span in quiet contemplation of his fate.
None who saw him through the window of his expensive SUV, with his trimmed blond hair and tailored suit, would suspect his radical ideology. His extreme views ensured that no accredited university would accept him, had he bothered to apply. At age 24 he had never spent a single day in a conventional classroom, yet he had the finest education from private tutors; fully rounded in history, law, mathematics, physics, literature, science, engineering, and philosophy. From birth he’d been groomed to achieve great things, and he knew he would.
Thinking of the traffic and the unseen protesters that caused it, he took another deep breath, and reminded himself, that the students were not the cause of the country’s declining standards, merely a symptom. They repeated the tired clichés they had heard since birth. Parents, media, peers, and teachers all expounded the same message of evil corporate greed and the need to sacrifice for the poor and environment. They accepted this moral code because they knew no other; and could not imagine the glorious life his alternative could offer.
These thoughts washed over him, escalating his urgency to move forward with the program that would make his alternative view the mainstream. Just the night before, he had taken the first small step to instigate his plan. Although incomplete, this first move would start a reaction of world transformation.
His actions were in defiance of the counsel that funded his program. “The people are not ready for the truth,” they told him a thousand times, but he was not convinced. “My plan will condition the population to accept the truth,” he whispered as a silent affirmation of his motives. For the briefest moment the image of a girl with stunning green eyes flashed into is mind, but he quickly turned from that heavy thought and focused on his mission.
From his car, higher than most, he peered into the intermittent wisps of fog and searched for the source of distant shouts, but saw only the golden suspension cables extending upward into a looming white cloud. Then he spotted shapes approaching from the opposite side, a throng of people in green shirts running toward him.
Although he had expected them, he was not prepared for the site of the protesters and he fumed at the sight.
The approaching crowd grew as more emerged from the fog. They were not confined to the sidewalks, but weaved in and out among the cars which were stopped like a parking lot. Drivers and passengers got out and joined in support. Car stereos blasted and people cheered in what moments before had been a somber commute.
He fought to retain his composure. “Our time will come,” he told himself again and again.
When the group reached mid span, just a few yards from his car, they stopped abruptly and climbed over the orange fence separating the road from the walkway. Facing Alcatraz Island and the Bay, they removed a huge green piece of tent-like canvas. In a single well-orchestrated motion they unrolled the sheet, fastening ropes to the top, and weights to the bottom.
Transfixed by the spectacle, its purpose was unclear, until a boy, tall lean and unshaven, lifted the canvas edge just as a gust of cold wind swept in from the ocean. In an instant it unfurled to reveal its purpose. Giant white letters, clear against the green sail, spelled out the words, ‘Human Need, Not Corporate Greed.’
Around him cars erupted in honks of approval as the banner fluttered over the side, suspended above by ropes tied to the massive orange suspension cables. The evident leader lifted his hands high above his head in triumph, just as wisps of thickening fog obscured his image.
A small group shuffled from car to car, affixing bumper stickers that read, “I Support a Green Tomorrow.” Suddenly a girl with stringy brown hair was staring up at him and waving a sticker, “Would you like to show your support for our cause, and end destructive corporate influence?” she asked.
Unable to maintain his well practiced composure, he uncharacteristically blurted his resentment. “Never, you should all be ashamed of yourselves.”
“Don’t you care about our future?” asked the puzzled girl.
He reflected on the unending succession of waking hours devoted to ensuring a proper future for mankind; days and nights of secluded work for one purpose that was the antithesis of this girl and her pointless cause.
“Your cause restricts liberty, hampers productivity, and saps financial resources. I have seen the future this will bring, and you would not wish it on your children.” He stopped, suddenly, wanting to say more, but knowing it would be wasted, she simply lacked the context to understand. He looked at her blank stare and knew who to blame - the college professors who crippled her mind, denying her the tools to make sense of the world.
The girl’s eyes widened and for a moment she stood stunned, staring up at his fine suit and tall Black SUV. Then she called out, “I found one, Edward. He talks like a greedy corporate pig. We should use his gas guzzler.” In the next instant, a dozen surrounding protesters converged on the car and rhythmically banged their fists chanting, “Human need not corporate greed.”
Suddenly, Edward, the tall pale boy, was standing before his car. From a bag, he produced a bottle of clear liquid and poured the contents on the hood. He glared through the window as if daring the man to step out. The smell of kerosene filled the air.
The man in the car had come to the bridge only to witness the predicted events and confirm his claims to the council, but this protestor was more than he could tolerate. They had desecrated the city, mocked America, and were now vandalizing his property. He sprang from his seat with fists clenched and rushed towards the vandal, shouting “What do you think you’re doing?”
Edward answered in a well rehearsed proclamation, “We seize this car in the name of mother Earth from which it came. On her behalf we liberate these resources to ensure her message is heard. Your corporate destruction of our land and indigenous cultures must end.”
The events that followed happened quickly. Edward produced an unlit match and the man sprang forward to stop him from lighting it. Startled, Edward dropped the match and cocked his fists. The man prepared to defend himself and property. The boy swung first, but the man pulled back and the punch just grazed his chin. He saw his opening but his punch was hampered by a girl clinging to his arm, and the man’s opportunity passed. The boy swung again, but this time it could not be dodged. The man’s body was held firm by hands from the crowd. The fist landed squarely on his face. His thoughts grew cloudy like the bay fog that enveloped him. He felt himself falling to the ground and his burning anger surpassed any fear of death. Then his thoughts turned to his unfinished project, and all that it meant to his life, his love, and his future. Suddenly the car was not important. ‘I must finish it’ he thought in desperation, but just then a sharp kick struck his forehead and he collapsed.
Behind him were the sounds of breaking glass and the smell of kerosene. He tried to rise again but the crushing blow of a boot ended his progress. Through the fog and pain his thoughts returned to the project and then to its one unbearable price; her name silently crossed his lips, ‘Tori.’ He tried to rise; his project had to be finished for his sake and hers. Their happiness could not have been traded for a half measure - an incomplete effort with no hope of revealing the truth.
A kick to his chest halted his motion. Peering through blurred eyes, he could make out the vision of a bright light growing ever more intense through white clouds, a vision not of approaching heaven, but of hell, as frolicking protesters danced and kicked in the orange glow of his burning car.
A final blow to the head, and his consciousness drained away to the lamenting sound of the pale boy’s voice, “I don’t think the cameras will see the fire in all this fog.”