OUTLIERS AND SHADOW DANCERS

From the R.M. Dolin novel, “An Unsustainable Life – The Book of Darwin.”

Chapter 22: Outliers and Shadow Dancers

Darwin departs for Albuquerque in the predawn darkness of a brisk Northern New Mexico mountain morning, he’s meeting Basia and Miyako who are the first to arrive for their week-long gathering. It’s been multiple months since Darwin’s been to Albuquerque, with his solar enterprise winding down and being estranged from Ilene and Issac, there’s little reason to make this four-hour trek. His avoidance, however, has nothing to do with the treacherous drive down Taos canyon in the dark, it’s not the hairpin turns lacking guardrails to prevent sliding into the raging Rio Grande below either, for Darwin, the canyon comes with personal hazards having little to do with road safety. No matter how hard he tries, each time he traverses the canyon he can’t escape the overwhelmingly despondent sense of desperation he felt that dangerous night he recklessly races to the Santa Fe airport in a vain attempt to make it to Chicago before Ilene and Issac hear the tragic news about Vincent.

His only comfort on that perilous ride comes from the necessary way Anna’s at his side. There’s an unmatched intimacy in having someone who matters in your moment of deepest despair, someone who knows how to console in silence; the reassuring touch of a hand, the gentle kindness in their eyes, the tender way their presence soothes your soul letting you know that through this darkness and turmoil goodness is still possible. In the moonlight cast by soiled sadness that dreadful night, he realizes while swirling past rapidly descending curves with reckless regard for speed, Anna’s no longer one of many but his forever only.

What keeps Darwin from spiraling into his usual despondency is the possibility today marks the beginning of the end of the journey his crisis caused. Berkeley was a lifetime ago, and for more than twenty years he’s isolated himself from technology and in some ways, he can argue he’s served his penance, but each time he starts that rationalization he abruptly exposes it for the lie it is. He knows that for the things he’s done, no amount of penance sums up to acceptable reconciliation.

He’s angry at Tien for dragging him back in even though it’s not her fault; she tried fixing what he broke and that’s honorable. It wasn’t her intent to make things worse even though she did and while he’s consistently adamant about not wanting to get involved, he has to help, how can he not? Building the necessary infrastructure for what they plan is the alluring elixir he can’t resist; too many engineering problems to solve and challenges to overcome. There’s the solar farm and the valley-wide enterprise required to subvert attention replete with its many design and construction obstacles. It takes three years to finish these undertakings, three years of delaying the inevitable. Once done, installation of the computers and servers they need commences and at that point there’s no longer any denying he’s re-entered the technology universe, a place he vowed to never again be and even though it’s been over a year since the command center went live, he’s yet to reconcile his decision to throw in with Tien and the rest of their Shadow Dancer cohorts.

The lesson learned from Berkeley is noble intentions aren’t enough, so what if he and his cohorts are trying to do good, what’s to say Berkeley won’t be repeated and they’re forever branded as demonic scoundrels. He considers the consequences of being banished into the pantheon of history’s worst villains and wonders if any of them started out to do good before spiraling out of control. What about today’s villains, how many are trying to do good but fall short? Are there conscientious information oligarchs or are they so consumed with sin that their souls can’t be saved? That’s a topic having as many twists and turns as Taos canyon, a topic worthy of the full four-hour drive to the airport.

Darwin reaches the north edge of Albuquerque with nothing resolved, he accepts he’ll never reconcile his decision to rejoin the Shadow Dancers but also can’t continuously beat himself up over it, what they’re about to undertake must be done because the consequence of inaction is the further acceleration of humanity’s demise. He’s had more than four years to work through every possible angle to excuse himself from this burden but finding no viable escape and having come to Tien’s sad same cataclysmic conclusion, the only option left is the one he’s chosen. He frames this outcome as a corollary to Occam’s Razor: when every nonviable solution to a problem has been duly discarded, the remaining solution, regardless of how impractical or implausible, is the optimal course of action.

Basia’s flight from Paris arrives five hours before Miyako’s plane from Tokyo, which gives Darwin a chance to introduce her to New Mexico cuisine as they catch up. They haven’t seen each other since Berkeley and have only communicated a few times via email, and even that’s only been in the last year. Three kids and twenty plus years as a stay-at-home mom has put a lot of distance between his once uber-talented programmer and the current state of technology. Basia worries she won’t be able to re-engage at a high level, but Darwin has no doubts about her ability to regain the brilliance he once relied on.

Darwin easily spots Basia across the crowded luggage carousel because nothing has changed; she still stands out like an illuminated ballerina under the spotlight of a dark stage; her long silky hair that’s more white than blonde still flows freely all the way to her waist, her tall slender body provides no indication she’s about to be a Babcia thanks to her new daughter-in-law getting pregnant on her honeymoon. To Darwin’s utter shock though, Basia’s brought a companion, her daughter, Camille (ka-meey), who Darwin later learns graduated with honors from the École Polytechnique, France’s most prestigious technical university. The Polytechnique is a military academy Camille enrolls in after early release from high school to follow in her father and older brother’s footsteps. She begins her academic career intent on military service but isn’t disappointed when the French government deems her unfit for duty due to her persistent and headstrong unwillingness to follow illogical orders. Instead, and at government urging, Camille pursues a master’s degree in software engineering at the University of Paris-Saclay, the MIT of France.

Her impressive academic credentials allow Camille to work anywhere in Europe but instead of accepting one of her many high paying offers, she elects to align her talents with a group of anti-technology Parisians who ironically rely on technology to campaign against the dangers of technology. In that sense, Camille’s inherited the same spirited dualism Basia was known for while working for Darwin in California.

Camille is mostly a carbon copy of her mom, except for being noticeably shorter, having thick brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and possessing the characteristically French probing eyes, thin lips, and sardonic disposition. One could not discern her brilliance based on fashion as her appearance can best be described as a cross between Castro-casual and urban-chic, which she pulls off in such understated elegance it leaves no doubt about her captivating beauty she pretends to hide.

Darwin’s far from certain what to make of this suddenly intrusive incursion, he and the rest of his cohorts have tacitly agreed on their shared need for discretion, so to allow someone so obviously inexperienced in the ways of the world to infiltrate their cohort is a breach of trust; at least that’s how it seems to Darwin as he struggles to work through this dilemma. “How much have you told her,” Darwin demands to know while watching Camille leave for the restroom.

“Nothing at all,” Basia calmly answers having not forgotten how to deal with Darwin, “it’s your call, if you want to include her, fine, if not, I’ll have her on the next plane back to Paris but before you decide, know this, she’s far more talented than I ever was. She hasn’t been on the sidelines for the past twenty-some years as technology marches on, she’s current on all the latest software and programing techniques and once you read her thesis, you’ll find she’s not only philosophically aligned with us, but she also has a two-year head start.”

Before Darwin can respond Camille returns, which is Basia’s cue to excuse herself for the restroom leaving these two strangers to sort things out. After a prolonged and awkward silence replete with unrehearsed fidgeting, their waiter arrives with a basket of tortilla chips and a bowl of freshly made salsa. His immediate departure initiates another envelope of silence as neither Darwin nor Camille are comfortable talking to strangers.

“In France bread is sometimes served before a meal,” Camille tentatively offers, cutting the tension in near fluent English. “I like the taco chips with tomato dip they offer here.”

“This is Albuquerque’s best Mexican restaurant,” Darwin responds forgetting to warn her about the salsa, “they make their tortilla chips fresh. Wait until you try the enchilada’s, they’re next level.” He smiles at the realization he’s just plagiarized the tag line from the waiter at his favorite Taos restaurant, which in an odd way settles his awkward anxieties. “I assume Basia told you she worked for me back in the day.”

“She did!” Camille stutters while frantically reaching for her water to dilute the effects of dipping too much salsa onto her tortilla chip. She takes a moment to allow her mouth to calm down as Darwin chuckles, amused by her rookie New Mexico mistake and his failed obligation to warn her. “I still can’t believe she used to live in America,” Camille finally restarts with difficulty, “from the way she talks you’d think she immigrated to France directly from Poland.”

“Did she say why she brought you?” Darwin abruptly inquires, cutting directly into the most prescient matter.

“We’re on vacation,” Camille casually states. “Mom has friends here, which I assume is you, between that and Santa Fe & Taos, there’s lots to see and do. I must admit though, I’m not much on art galleries or the avant garde vibe I’ve read about. I do love the mountains and being outdoors though, so can tolerate touring galleries with mom if she’ll hike with me; that’s our deal.”

“Fair trade.” Darwin surmises while sprinkling salt on his generous helping of salsa. “Basia worked for me in California, which is nowhere near as nice as New Mexico. She was my best programmer and being we’re both Polish, we had a special simpatico. We haven’t seen each other since I sold the company though.”

“Mom says you’re some kind of an entrepreneurial savant; did you start another venture?”

“Things did not end well with my company.” Darwin doesn’t usually like talking about Berkeley but assumes because Basia probably pre-briefed Camille, there’s no secrets. He does take his time before continuing though. “It wasn’t anything having anything to do with Basia.” Darwin pauses to reflect. “What happened was all on me, the fallout, however, impacted the entire team.” He uses beer to wash down his last tortilla chip while lubricating his thoughts. “She took what happened pretty hard, gave up programming, which is a shame and I feel horrible about that.” He takes another swig of beer. “I did the same, moved into the New Mexico wilderness to isolate myself from technology’s temptations.”

“Mom says you haven’t seen each other since California, and now, here we are.” Camille stops, uncertain how to continue. “I know she loves dad and I know this isn’t a vacation, so tell me, why are we here?”

Darwin grins as he momentarily considers answering her question, “you don’t mess around, do you? I like that, you have a lot of Basia in you. She tells me that as good as she is at programming you’re orders of magnitude better, is that true?”

“I did good in school but that’s not real life, is it?” Camille tentatively tries another tortilla chip, only this time with less salsa. “I never had what your generation calls a traditional job. By the time my thesis is accepted, I realize I can’t be a contributor to corporate calamity, so I opt to work with a group more socially conscience, I think you American’s call it being ‘more woke’.”

“Interesting,” Darwin concludes without judgment. “I hear the ‘woke’ word getting tossed around Taos cafés, but never really got what it’s about. Tell me about this group you work for.”

“Work with, we call ourselves ‘l’Alliance Pour la Préservation de l’Humanité.”

“The Alliance for the Preservation of Humanity,” Darwin translates, “APH, great name, almost screams legitimacy. I gotta tell you though, the acronym’s sketchy.”

Camille scoffs, “American’s can always be counted on to reduce things to simple terms can’t they. I like our name and it doesn’t need to be acronymized. Contrary to your impression though, we are not viewed as legitimate, more like court jesters. It’s a bit frustrating, we sit around debating how to protest what’s wrong while pontificating about everything we should be doing while nothing ever gets done, so nothing ever changes.” Camille takes a moment to consider the dichotomy of her job relative to why she might be here. “Mom describes you as a decisive man of action, that’s why she’s here isn’t it, it’s the only thing that could end her retirement. Bringing me is not by accident either is it?”

“I didn’t know you even existed until this morning.”

Camille presses on undeterred. “You two are scheming something, that’s why mom brought me; something significant, decisive men of action don’t think small.”

Darwin laughs, “Basia failed to mention your wild imagination. The reason I invited Basia is because our old team’s getting together in Taos, a reunion of sorts or as you French like to say, a rendezvous. Back before New Mexico was part of America, Taos was the gathering place for the annual mountain man rendezvous; I’m just upholding a four-hundred-year-old tradition.”

Camille considers Darwin’s dodge before dismissing it. “This meeting you’re hosting, it has no clandestine agenda?”

“Things may get talked about,” Darwin admits. “Topics you’re likely familiar with. Basia told me a little about your background, very impressive. Tell me though, how much of a radical are you?”

Camille considers Darwin’s question. “I don’t believe I’d label myself a radical, especially here, it has a different context. Being a radical in France just means you have passionate beliefs; in America it means you’re a fanatic. I’m not a fanatic, not even really an idealist.” She pauses to reflect. “I prefer to think of myself a pragmatist with passion.”

“I like that,” Darwin says with a grin. “Has a sort of je ne sais quoi feel.” He helps himself to another salsa dipped tortilla chip before washing it down with a swig of beer. He then stares at Camille with the same intensely deep glare that garners uncomfortable trepidation from Taos locals whenever they encounter him. “Tell me more about your pragmatic passions?”

Camille readjusts herself hoping to find comfort in the uncomfortableness of being interrogated. “Each of us awakens to the world at different times in different ways.” She boldly dips a tortilla chip into the salsa bowl before better judgement takes hold, and she taps the salsa-laced chip along the side of the bowl to bounce off whatever freely drops back into the cauldron. She glares back at Darwin with the same intensely piercing stare. “I realize as a teenager the way I digest technology is different than most, that’s actually my thesis topic; analyzing the impact of digital technology on French society, which of course can only be done in the context of digital technology’s impact on the world.”

“Fascinating,” Darwin offers as he consumes another salt enhanced salsa-soaked chip, “a topic dear to me as well. Tell me, in your expert opinion, where’s the world heading?”

“Straight off a cliff,” Camille answers without deliberation. “Society has become a mesmerized meme of a freight train rumbling toward a cliff unaware the bridge to the other side is out. The precursors I lay out in my thesis are all vectoring toward humanity’s demise: kaput, finie, the fat lady’s singing.”

“And this alliance you work for?”

“Work with,” Camille corrects. “We’re committed to diverting the technology train before it flies off the cliff.”

“How?”

“That’s a topic for another day,” she flatly states without embellishment, “but if you like, I can direct you to our webpage?”

“You’re out in the open with your warnings and agenda?”

“Oui.”

“Wow! We’ve been operating on the premise we need to be discrete.”

“Why?” Camille defiantly challenges, “do you really believe you can hide from the watchers; they’ve known about your subversion way before you ever even organized. Besides, if you want to wake the woke, you have to sound a lot of alarms.”

Darwin takes a moment to assess this new avenue of intrigue. “Tell me then, who’s the villain? I mean, who’s lined up against you, these people you call the watchers, is it the government or information oligarchs?”

Camille smiles. “Now it’s my turn to be impressed, ‘information oligarchs,’ I like that.” She grabs a tortilla chip with a daring bit more salsa while considering the implications of her new nomenclature. “It’s the oligarchs of course; they control the politicians. Look at the laws the European Union is advocating, the rights of individuals diminish daily while people become compliant lemmings: protesters, strikers, religious zealots, patriotic patsies, all being controlled and manipulated by who you call the information oligarchs.”

“I have my theories on why,” Darwin asserts, “but am fascinated to hear yours.”

“As outlined in my thesis, the goal is to create chaos, accomplish that and the masses can easily be convinced to give up liberties, property, things they cherish. That’s how your information oligarchs consolidate power, it’s a formula that’s been in play since before the bible. When extra measures are necessary, they create a crisis, it’s why the Germans invaded Poland, why Russia launched their murderous campaign on Ukraine. Take our last pandemic, anyone still able to think for themselves knows COVID was a fabricated crisis; by controlling the media, medical professionals, and politicians, the information oligarchs created false narratives driving people to absurdly stupid behavior. Look what they gained, complete dominion over the masses, the only exceptions were those we call ‘the Outliers,’ people immune to technology addiction, those refusing to surrender their privacy to social media, people still capable of honest unbiased thought. These outliers are humanity’s last only hope.”

“Well.” Darwin says after washing down a tortilla chip with a swig of beer. “That’s quite the radical position.”

“Am I wrong?” Camille sternly shoots back.

Darwin dips another chip into the salsa bowl coating it with a heaping helping of salsa and several dashes of salt, “yes and no,” he says after careful consideration.

Before Darwin can expound on his position or Camille can probe deeper, Basia returns. “How you two getting on?” she asks while settling into her seat.

“I was just explaining my belief that humanity’s doomed and Dr. Olinski accuses me of being a radical, so I ask him if I’m wrong and -”

“Let me guess,” Basia interrupts while laughing, “he answers, yes and no.” She smiles at Darwin, who feigns innocence. “That’s his standard answer to any question.”

“First off,” Darwin stipulates while mounting his defense, “it’s Darwin not Dr. Olinski, no one’s called me that in over twenty years; even when I teach graduate classes at the Taos community college, besides, my ego’s not as feeble as MDs. Second,” he looks fondly at Basia, “while it may or may not be true ‘yes and no’ is my standard response to any question, I’m gonna revise my previous answer,” he looks at Camille with grave seriousness, “the thing about well-reasoned radicals, which are not only in short supply but are far from fanatical, is they only seem crazy because they see the future as clearly as everyone else sees a sunrise and in that regard,” he pauses, looking first at Basia and then at Camille with forlorn seriousness, “you are sadly, spot on.”