“So, do you have any holiday plans, Jaden?” asks Jaina.
“Yeah! I just scored a neat gig. I’m going to be a Santa Claus at a mall in Queens. I’ll be there a couple days a week during Christmas vacation, and the pay is good! It’s going to finance a nice vacation to Paris next summer. I’ll go the Art Institute there and take a course on Post-Impressionism.”
“Mmm ... sounds like a nice double benefit!”
“Yeah. I don’t mind being around young kids, and getting to research the French masters by seeing their work in person is a real turn-on for me! And Paris ... mmmm.”
“So did the school arrange this?” I ask.
“No. It was a job one of my fellow teachers had arranged earlier this year, but he got transferred to Washington over the summer. He’d totally forgotten about this until he got a confirmation call. He posted on the school site, and I picked it up.”
“Neat!” says Jaina.
“This lesson is a continuation of the topic we started in the geisha lesson: the gray areas of baby making. Gene scientists have made a lot of advancements in the last decade. Ninety-nine percent of these have nothing to do with baby raising, but that last one percent gets a lot of news and a lot of discussion.
“One code that has been mastered recently is enzyme sequence that brings on puberty.”
“The key to stopping aging?” asks Jaden hopefully.
“Many people would like it to be so, Jaden, but no. It just stops puberty. The early test animals it’s been employed on seem to stay young, and in fact, they keep growing ... and growing. In the early demonstrations they grew goldfish to the size of tuna. As the growth gets into that huge size range, the fish’s circulation system finally just kind of disintegrates -- it was never designed for such volume. So the breakthrough is not anti-aging but it should produce profitable applications in agribusiness.”
“Cheap goldfish sandwich at last!” wisecracks Ben. I continue.
“But that hasn’t stopped many people from wishing and hoping, and gray area types from preying on those wishes and hopes. Yes, it can now be applied to humans, and Janet Van Kiester has been making news by wanting to mix the puberty stopping with growth inhibitor. She wants to make what she calls ‘eternal childhood’. That’s a big overstatement of what’s likely to come out of her work, but it sure sounds warm and fuzzy.”
“What’s likely to come out?” asks Ruby.
“The body of a child that grows old. Aging is a lot more than just stopping puberty. There may be applications for this ability. There may be environments where a child-like body suits better than adult bodies, but it’s not an eternal fountain of youth. This person will still learn and become more knowledgeable as years go by, and parts of the body will still age, but, yes, there will likely be differences in thinking -- no crazy-raging-hormone falling in love.” I grin at that, and get some grins back from Ben and Janet. Jaina, not surprisingly, seems a bit confused.
“Sounds like it could almost produce a pet,” says Ruby. Ben and Janet nod at this as well.
“Like the geisha, this is a deep concern,” I agree. “Some wags are calling this the feminist answer to geishas ... old men get their sex toys, old women get their child pets.” Jaina giggles at this, and I continue, “This is yet another technology that will be full of surprises. What we want to do in this class is make sure we get the good surprises, or when we are going to take risks, be sure we understand as much of what is at risk as we can.”
“Dahlia, I want you to come see where I live,” Annette announces to me after class.
“You’ve been so helpful and so tolerant of our different ways that our prophet, Isaac Jesper, would like to meet you in person.”
I am honored and we set a date. The colony has no avatars so this will be an in-person visit.
The trip there is long and difficult. The nearest airport is a two-hour drive by land vehicle, and that vehicle is driven by a person. The first half is standard enough on a road we share with lots of creation traffic. The second half is something special! It is on a dirt “road” ... with the driver really driving! It is a rough ride on cleared dirt -- speeding up, slowing down, twisting, turning, bouncing, bouncing, BOUNCING. And the heat! Even with the air conditioner running, the heat pulses through the glass windows. The driver is wearing weathered jeans, a reed hat, and a cotton shirt, and his face skin is getting as weathered as his jeans. But he is kind, and when he notices I’m getting a bit green under the gills and losing my concentration as I try to text, he tries to steady up the ride.
“Not used to this, eh?” he says knowingly with a drawl.
“It doesn’t come up often for me,” I admit.
“Keep your head up. Keep looking out. And think happy thoughts. It helps,” he says. “You’re not the first city slicker to make this trip ... and they all survived,” he grins.
I put away my phone and just look out the windows. Annette had advised me that multi-tasking was frowned upon at the compound, so I might as well get used to it early. And it does help.
In fact, now that I am paying attention, I see that the driver’s driving skill is impressive. He seems to be one with this vehicle and this road, and there is no creation I can see acting as intermediary. When he pushes on the gas, the engine roars immediately; when he pushes on the brake, he is determining how much we slow down. Impressive! Prior to this my only experience with a person directly commanding a vehicle was at an amusement park ride. ... Oh, and riding my bicycle at the bicycle course in the park.
I know immediately when we reach the compound. We cross over a rise, and on the far side the view is dominated by a huge white building surrounded by an immaculate green grass lawn -- very out of place in the dusty, arid scrub we’ve been driving through.
We don’t go to that building, though. We drive around it and go to a building more modest in size, but equally well maintained.
As we drive into the parking lot, the driver explains, “That’s the temple. That’s for the faithful. Strangers don’t go in there. This here’s the residence of the prophet. You’ll be staying here and meeting him here.”
As we get out, Annette comes out of the building and gives me a big hug. She looks so happy, relaxed and comfortable here -- hardly the reserved, strong-willed matron I’m used to in class sessions. The driver brings my bags as we walk in.
“I’ve scheduled you for a tour first. Then you will meet Prophet Jesper.” She takes my arm as we walk in.
I get settled and toured. It is fascinating, partly because I am seeing this for the first time in person, not reviewing a VR summary. It is a strange feeling, and I have to take it slow.
Surrounding the temple and residence, these people have built homes, schools, and workshops. There are a thousand or so people living here, so it’s a full community. The workshops are filled with men busy fabricating stuff. “We try to make as much as we can for ourselves,” explains Annette. “We don’t want creations doing what man was intended to do.”
I am polite enough not to point out that all the tools these men are using were made by creations. But I am impressed with how much of the compound is taken up in workshops. It is a lot. And what they produce doesn’t look like creation stuff, either. It is simpler, cruder, and has a different aesthetic. “We sell some of this to collectors and get a good price for it,” Annette tells me.
We also tour a home, a school, and a social hall. As we walk from building to building, we are surrounded with children. They are all over, and going everywhere -- even in this heat that is driving me batty. They seem quite used to it. There are mothers around doing some herding of the kids, but compared to what I am used to seeing, these are pretty free-ranging kids! I had also noticed a lot of pretty young-looking kids in some of those workshops. Even though back in the real world, it is strictly illegal to hire anyone under eighteen, I decide not to mention it, but Annette does.
“The workshops where you see the youngsters are not producing anything commercial,” she says. “In the commercial ones, we have only eighteen year-olds and up. These kids in here are just doing hobbies.”
“Part of learning human-sufficiency?” I ask. She nods. It seems like a fine line to me, but I guess they are getting away with it.
Late that afternoon, after I’ve had a chance to freshen up and recover a bit, I meet with the prophet.
The prophet’s office is plush, but in a distinctive way. On the walls are paintings of Biblical and early American history events all done in a realist paint-on-canvas style. All the furnishings are human-crafted. They come from around the world, and many are antiques from different eras, so there is no theme other than being human crafted. To my designer eye, it looks like a collection of kitsch, like you might find in an off-the-strip Las Vegas casino lobby ... different strokes for different folks.
The prophet himself, Isaac Jesper, is immaculately dressed and sits at his desk flanked by two associates. Annette quietly excuses herself after she shows me in. Annette may have to be obsequious, but it seems the prophet does not stand on formality with important strangers because once the door shuts, he gets up and meets me halfway and gives me a warm handshake.
“Ms. Rose -- may I call you that -- I’m so happy you accepted Annette’s invitation. Please have a seat!” He motions me towards a sofa and coffee table arrangement on the side of the office halfway between the door and his desk. “Would you care for a drink?” he asks as we get seated. “You’re a guest, so you’re not subject to our dietary restrictions. What can I get you? Coffee, tea, soda, water, something stronger?”
I think for a moment. This colony food system isn’t connected to my Diet Minder in any way. Whatever I eat here is the real deal, not customized to my current requirements, and not aware of my digestive sensitivities. Then again, my Diet Minder will compensate at my next real meal, and my gut nanotech can probably deal with whatever exotic microbes come with this territory. Then again, this is a religious issue. Whew! So innocent, but such a loaded question!
“Coffee,” I decide. I don’t want to look too cautious, nor do I want to look like some kind of libertine. One of the assistants heads off to prepare it.
Jesper’s small talk is surprisingly pleasant. He inquires about current events happening in the Big Apple and asks about how DeMuzzy is faring, and he seems genuinely interested. I find myself warming up to him. He has charisma, that’s for sure. Then he gets to the point.
“Dahlia, Annette has been quite impressed by what she is learning in her class, and with you personally. What she has brought back to the colony from your class has impressed the elders as well. We figure that if you understand a bit more about our program, it could be mutually beneficial.
“What do you know about our Reaching for Paradise colony?”
“I know that you’re out here because you’re not happy with the human-creation relations that characterize much of modern society.” (I’d done some homework.) “I know that your group is modeled after a cul ... group that broke away from the mainstream Mormon religion about two hundred years ago. I -- ”
“You know about the plural marriage, of course,” he interrupts.
“I do. Is that still an issue?”
“The people that live out here are all religious conservatives ... but in several different ways. Yes, there are people out here that take strong issue with our practice. I’m wondering ... what are your feelings on that issue?”
I shrug. “Different strokes for different folks. It’s not an issue that’s on my radar.”
He looks relieved, “That has probably helped in your relation with Annette.
“I wanted to talk with you a bit to clarify some issues with you. Those people who know about our colony, and care, tend to have both strong feelings and big misconceptions. I’d like you to get the straight skivvy.”
“I’m happy to learn,” I say.
“Because our belief in polygamy was shunned in the 19th and 20th centuries, our people were persecuted and forced to live in places where few other people had a desire to. As a result, we developed a lot of self-sufficiency. Seventy years ago a new crisis came up. Polygamy became acceptable in many mainstream societies, and many of the religion’s members wished to relocate, and many did. These days you can find FLDS groups in Vancouver, Dallas, and San Diego.”
“And Provo-Orem?” I ask.
Isaac smiles. “The mainstream Mormons are still a bit too close to this issue to be comfortable with us. The FLDS there keep a low profile.”
“You’re saying you’re not FLDS?”
“No, we are not. The church split in the crisis I was just talking about. We declared them apostates and they declared us excommunicated. It got ugly. There were property issues as well as doctrinal ones. If they were leaving places like Hildale and the YFZ ranch behind, we wanted them. In the end, with God’s blessing, we compromised. I won’t go into the details.”
“So ... what was the issue?” I am getting confused.
“Those of us remaining here received the revelation that polygamy wasn’t the big issue -- it was self-sufficiency. God did not intend for us to hand over our livelihoods to creations. We humans are the creations. We are the descendants of Adam and Eve, not these clicking-clacking monsters!” He is getting excited now. His face is rouging up, but then he catches his breath and calms down.
“But biology is a gray area for us. It’s about humans, not creations. So it is not clear what we can accept and what we must condemn. This is why what you have been teaching Annette is so valuable. Where technology can help us become more self-sufficient, more human-oriented, we can embrace it. And promoting fertility looks like it may be one of those areas. Fertility means more people, not more creations.”
Characterizing creations as “clinking and clanking” sounds like something out of Jules Verne or Steampunk, but that kind of mischaracterization is part and parcel of negative stereotyping. There’s no point in bringing that up here. Instead I ask, “How can I be of further help?”
Isaac gets a serious look on his face. “We can see that the world around us is getting more creation-oriented day-by-day. We are hoping that biology may stem the tide or provide some sort of middle way -- some way that will allow us to thrive and prosper without becoming thralls of creations. We would like you to know that we are searching for this. And, if you can help us find this middle way, we -- and our Savior -- would be eternally grateful. What we ask is that you continue to work with Annette and help us seek out this middle way.” He smiles as he finishes.
“... I think I can do that,” I say. I’m not sure what I’m volunteering for, but given how distant these people are from New York, both geographically and culturally, I don’t feel threatened.
Isaac smiles at that, and after a bit more small talk, our meeting ends.
The next day I am ready to head back, but Annette suggests, “Before you go, do you have time to attend a Relief Society meeting? It’s where we women get together and talk about self-improvement issues.” I hesitate -- it doesn’t sound that interesting -- but the look on Annette’s face suggests she thinks it is a good idea ... a very good idea. “Sure,” I say.
And I am happy I do. Unlike the meeting with the prophet, this one is very practical. At last I am able to use some of my expertise as these women question me thoroughly on many aspects of modern child-bearing and rearing practices.
As the session draws to a close, Annette looks happy and explains, “Thank you, Dahlia. The Lord speaks through our prophet -- and our husbands -- on big issues, but once those are decided, we women have a lot to say about the day-to-day implementation of those revelations.
“We have long recognized that our practices of close relative marriage caused concern among those around us ... and to many of us within our group. Some of us have wondered if the new genetic testing techniques could be considered a gift from God to help us with our child-bearing and child-raising.
“And if they were ... just how much help could we take?
“One reason I’m taking your course is to help us get better information on these issues. That is why I invited you to come here. You have seen more about how we live, you’ve had a chance to meet some more of us, and we have discovered more about this potential gift from God.”
There are a few more questions, then the meeting winds up rather quickly -- kids are getting out of school soon. It is time for me to endure another bouncy, jouncy ride back to the airport, although this time it isn’t nearly so bad. As my driver would have put it, “My body has learned some.”
Part of my job as teacher is to review student resumes. I help spruce them up so that they look as good as the spruced up PAT scores they get from attending class. What I mostly look for are ways to add a strategic community service or two.
But as I’m going over Jaden Larkin’s resume, I spot a huge, waving red flag. I contact him immediately.
“You, a male, are playing Santa Claus without sexual predator insurance?” I look at him with jaw dropped.
“Well it’s only over the video!” he rebuts. “Well ... until this year, that is.
“And why should I be a target? I don’t have deep pockets. I hardly have any pockets at all!”
“Even so,” I respond, “the lawyers that run those sex-pred firms are high volume operators. They’ll run you through the machine, and you won’t stand a chance of ever making money. They’ll take your movie money before you’ve even written the movie!
“And, it’s not your pockets they are looking to dig deep into. You’re a ticket they will punch. Most of their income will come from the Sexual Predator Relief Fund. If you have insurance they settle for a fat sum out of court, but to tap the relief fund takes a conviction.”
“But I’m not a ... a ... monster!”
“They won’t think you are. What they will think is you’re a naive fool. Which, I have to say, you are, if you do this.
“Even worse, you will have this huge scar on your record! At best, you won’t qualify for raising lab rats after you’ve gone through that process. At worst, you’ll be serving some hard time, too!”
He sighs, “It’s so expensive. And I don’t do it that much.”
“And that’s why ninety percent of the Santas these days are women, even the video Santa’s. These days you can argue trauma even over video. You’re really playing with fire, Jaden.”
He sighs again.
I give him my best heart-to-heart tone, “It’s ironic, Jaden, but if you’re serious about child-raising, you’re going to have to consider Santa-playing as an expensive hobby.”
The more I find out about Adrian, the more I like what I am finding. The visit to his workshop fires me, and I do more research on him.
I already know he is now CEO of Gene Editors, LLC., and he used to be a professional dancer. What I find out is he is also well-traveled. His dancing took him on tours to Europe, and his science research took him to Central Asia and Antarctica. It was his research in Antarctica that first connected him with Julian Homeby. Then last year Homeby published some studies about some tertiary effects he had discovered while researching extremeophiles that were surviving surprisingly well on Mars. We humans found no life on Mars -- if it’s there it’s vanishingly rare. So for ten years we’ve been researching how to adapt earth life to Mars. It’s another step in spreading life around the solar system. Extremophiles are bacteria that can thrive in extreme conditions, and Mars certainly qualifies as that! Adrian is teaming up with Homeby to produce some gene editing tools that would exploit what Homeby has found.
This could be white-hot. It could make all kinds of manmade genetic adapting happen faster. Along with many other things, it could speed up the development of adapting the human phenotype to survive in Mars conditions -- it could make better Mars babies faster.
Intellectually, I am getting warm and fuzzy over this guy. And my emotional side is not far behind. I love watching him move when we have class together, and his voice is talking straight to my heart. Mmmm....
After only two classes I had started plotting, and after class three I found an excuse to invite him to lunch, and after that we had our workshop tour. Now it’s time to hit him up with the big one. I invite him to dinner at Da Munchies. I warm him up with small talk about his work, and then I pop the question: I propose we team up on some child raising.
“So ... what do you think?”
Adrian smiles at me. There is a look of surprise on his face, but not delight.
“I’m honored, Dahlia. I know you have lots of choices available to you ...” He thinks before he continues -- he is trying to be delicate. “In answer to your question: I respect you highly, but I haven’t had strong mutual feelings because I considered you too ... high maintenance ... is probably the best way to put it.”
“High maintenance! I maintain myself very well, thank you!” I huff back.
He laughs at that, “Oh, you do on the fiscal and emotional levels, there’s no doubt about that! What I was thinking of was the time commitment, and the emotional commitment, to me, as a man.”
He is giving me that “man look” again -- the one that says it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing now, what statement you’re trying to make with the hours and dollars you’ve spent on clothes, cosmetics, and plastics. What counts is what you feel like naked, partly wrapped in sheets, cuddling up to your man’s side and dreamily listening to his heart beat after some happy frolicking. What you feel like both inside and outside: Outside do you feel warm, cuddly, and accommodating to your man? Inside do you feel like you’ve just been taken closer to God than you ever thought possible? Do you feel like you can never be so happy again ... but you sure want to try as soon as your man feels up to it again?
Grrr ... Ten, fifteen, well in truth, it was twenty years ago, I hoped and prayed for that look in a man I was interested in. Many feminists discount that look entirely -- the thoughts behind it are just not a part of their what-men-think-of universe. Those that bother to recognize the look as a possibility argue that a man caring about what a woman thinks during love-making is just urban legend promoted by conniving males.
I think those feminists overstate their case; there is a gem of truth behind that so-called legend, and I look for it. I should say, I used to look for it -- I’m not a man-hungry, kid-hungry, hormone-raging teenager any more.
“In truth, I’m seriously considering a geisha,” he continues evenly.
“Like we saw in the video?” This I’m not expecting!
He nods. “I’m a busy man, and a man of business. I don’t have time for a lot of courting and woman-accommodating. A geisha will accommodate me, and if my next deal goes through as planned, I’ll have the resources to pay for one.”
“What if your next deal doesn’t go through?” I ask evenly, but I really don’t care what the answer is. I just figure asking something, anything, is more diplomatic than slapping him silly and walking out in a huff. This is just not going as I planned at all!
“Then I will be reconsidering my options, and that would include what I think about you.” Now he smiles at me in a much more pleasing way -- he is paying attention to me and what I look like now. “And please don’t take what I’m saying the wrong way. I recognize that first-on-the-wish-list is a rare happening in the real world.”
Oh my! I’ve been flip-flopped again! Well, he certainly is a man of business, if an exasperating one. He isn’t afraid to lay the facts on the line so that good decisions can be made. That part I admire. But ... take a geisha over me! A sex toy! What is he thinking!
... I guess he is thinking like a busy, important, intelligent man -- just the kind of man I want to hitch up with. Sigh!
OK, my search goes on ... just in case his first on his wish list happens. But I’ll hold off on the slapping him silly for now.
Men! Can’t live with ’em! Can’t live without ’em!