SHADOW DANCERS AND OTHER SUCH MYTHS

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

Chapter 21: Shadow Dancers And Other Such Myths

Darwin departs Taos in predawn darkness. The brisk Northern New Mexico mountain air is cloaked in excited trepidation, or it could just be him, he’s undecided. Basia and Miyako are the first to arrive for the week-long gathering that’s been months in the making. Darwin hasn’t been to Albuquerque since the last time he flew to Chicago to hang out with Lenny. With his solar enterprise winding down and being estranged from Ilene and Issac, there’s little reason to go to Chicago or make the nearly four-hour trek to Albuquerque. He tells himself his avoidance 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. The canyon comes with its own set of personal hazards for Darwin, having little to do with road safety. No matter how hard he tries, each time he traverses the canyon he can’t escape the same overwhelmingly despondent sense of desperation he felt that dangerous night he recklessly races to the Santa Fe airport in his 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, Darwin realizes while swirling past rapidly descending curves with reckless regard for speed, Anna’s no longer one of many but has become 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. Each time he starts that rationalization though, he abruptly exposes it for the lie that 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 at least tried to fix what he broke and that’s not only honorable; it’s a hell of a lot more than he did. 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’s obligated to help. Building the necessary infrastructure for what they plan became the alluring elixir he couldn’t resist. There are just too many engineering problems to solve and challenges to overcome, each one like heroin to an addict. There’s the solar farm and underground Command Center, along with the valley-wide enterprise required to subvert attention, replete with its clandestine booking keeping coverup. 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. At that point there’s no longer any denying he’s re-entered the technology universe; a place he vowed to never again be. It’s nearly two years since the command center went live and yet; he still hasn’t reconciled his decision to throw in with Tien, the rest of his former technology team, and remaining remnants of his Shadow Dancers.

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 how many of them set off 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 reembrace technology 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 six 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 Basia 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. You can evolve programing languages, you can improve software platforms, but the talent required to turn mathematics into logical algorithms is an enduring constant.

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 her mom was known for while working 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 the captivating beauty she pretends to hide.

Darwin’s far from certain about what to make of this intrusive incursion. He and the rest of his cohorts have tacitly agreed on their shared need for discretion, so allowing 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 restaurant’s restroom.

“Nothing at all,” Basia answers. It may have been over twenty years since they worked together, but she hasn’t 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. Before you decide though, know this, she’s far more talented than I ever was. Plus, 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 discover she’s not only philosophically aligned with us, she 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 freshly fried tortilla chips and a bowl of hand-made salsa. The waiter’s immediate departure initiates another envelope of silence as neither Darwin nor Camille are comfortable talking.

“In France bread is sometimes served before a meal,” Camille offers in near fluent English in a tentative attempt to break through their deadlock. “I like the taco chips with tomato dip they offer here.”

“This is Albuquerque’s best Mexican restaurant,” Darwin responds. He forgets to warn her about the salsa, which is an obligation when introducing new visitors to the Land of Enchantment. “They make their tortilla chips fresh. Wait until you try the enchilada’s, they’re next level.” Darwin 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 spicy salsa onto her tortilla chip. It takes a moment for her mouth to calm down during which she drinks more water and uses her hand to fan air into her mouth. Darwin chuckles, amused by her rookie New Mexico mistake and his failed obligation to warn her. After slowly regaining her calm, Camille restarts. “I still can’t believe mom used to live in America. 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. He could waste time with idle chit chat but cutting directly into the most prescient matter seems an optimal use of their time.

“We’re on vacation,” Camille states. “Mom has friends here, which I assume is you. Between that and Santa Fe & Taos, there’s lots to see and do. I’ll 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 sprinkles salt on the generous heaping of salsa he’s dipped onto his tortilla chip. “It’s good were not meeting in California, it’s nowhere near as nice there as it is here. 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?”

“I don’t know how much Basia told you, but 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 your mom.” Darwin pauses and he retraces the chain of events. “What happened was all on me. The fallout though, 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, left Silicon Valley and 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 considers how best to answer 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 a lot less salsa. “I never had what your generation calls a traditional job. By the time my thesis was accepted, I realized I can’t be a contributor to corporate calamity, so I opted 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 more about this group you work for.”

“Work with,” Camille corrects. “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. “You American’s can always be counted on to reduce things to simple terms. 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 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 anything about you until this morning.”

Camille presses on undeterred. “You two are scheming something, that’s why mom brought me. Something significant that will make a difference. Decisive men of action don’t think small.”

Darwin laughs. “Basia failed to mention your wild imagination. The reason I invited your mom 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 even a territory, 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 label myself a radical, especially here where 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 as a pragmatist with passion.”

Darwin grins. “I like that. Has a sort of je ne sais quoi feel.” He helps himself with another salsa-dipped salt-infused tortilla chip before washing it down with a swig of beer. He 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 judgment 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 that he gives her. “I realized 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. Of course, that can only be done in the context of digital technology’s impact on the world.”

Darwin consumes another salt enhanced salsa-soaked chip. “Fascinating,” he finally offers. “That’s 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 their promised land 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 states without embellishment. “But if you like, I can direct you to our website.”

“You have a website? How are you not dead or in jail? The European Union does not take kindly to such things but yet you’re open with your warnings and agenda?”

“Oui.”

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

“Why?” Camille challenges. “Do you actually believe you can hide from the watchers? They’ve known about your subversion before you even organized your little rendez-vous. Besides, if you want to wake the woke, you have to sound loud alarms.”

Darwin takes a moment to assess this new avenue of intrigue. “Tell me then, who’s the villain?”

“I don’t understand?”

“Who’s lined up against you? These people you call the watchers, is it the government or the information oligarchs the European Council is subservient to?”

Camille smiles. “Now it’s my turn to be impressed, information oligarchs, I like that.” She dips a tortilla chip with a daring bit more salsa while considering the implications of her new nomenclature in the context of Darwin’s question. “It’s the oligarchs of course, they control the politicians. Look at the laws the European Council advocates, 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 liberty, 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 in 39 and 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 at what they gained, complete dominion over the masses. The only exceptions were those we call the Outliers, people immune to technology’s addiction, those refusing to exchange their privacy for social media. People capable of honest unbiased thought. These outliers are humanity’s last hope.

“There is a group we hear rumors about, a group that proceeded us in seeing the shadows on the wall. That’s what they called it from their early days in Silicon Valley. They were on the front line, in a position to make a difference. They would meet in secret to discuss the roles and responsibilities technologists have in shaping society, only they lost containment. That led to unregulated and at times unethical technology development, which paved the way for what you call the Information Oligarchs. They’re really nothing more than a myth, an allegory meant to highlight how easily the catastrophe before us could have been avoided if they had only done what was required. You can’t fix a dike once the leak is sprung, so here we are, trying to fix something that can’t really be fixed, but we have to try.”

Darwin washes down a tortilla chip with a swig of beer. “Well, that’s quite the story from a rather unforgiving and radical point of view. Maybe this secretive society did in fact exist, and maybe they knew something needed to be done but didn’t know what? That doesn’t damn them and make you right.”

“Am I wrong?” Camille shoots back.

Darwin dips another chip into the salsa bowl coating it with a heaping 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 says, 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 math classes at Taos community college they don’t call me that. 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. He looks first at Basia and then at Camille with forlorn seriousness. “You are sadly, spot on.”