12
Outside Storuman
Sweden
WHEN HE WAS YOUNG, the darkness had crept up on him slowly—disguising itself as a passing shadow, using the constant chaos of his mind as camouflage. Now it attacked without hesitation or pretense, often prompted by nothing more than an innocuous comment or a brief scent from a forgotten past. And other times it came for no reason at all.
Christian Dresner stepped out into the sweeping garden, his Merge sensing his position within the compound’s walls and shutting down everything but vision correction. The snow was falling in large, drifting flakes that absorbed the sound of his footsteps as he weaved through trees dusted white.
Brushing off a lone bench, he sat and let the cold sink into him. Behind, the bunker-like building he’d just exited stood silent and, in many ways, equally cold. It was one of a collection of similar structures spread across the world. How many now? Ten? Fifteen? Maybe it was his aging mind that kept him from remembering. Or maybe it was that he felt nothing for any of them. They were less homes than self-appointed prisons meant to make him feel safe. And while he recognized it was probably an illusion, it was at least a comfortable one. In these gardens, for brief, precious moments, he could sometimes make everything outside disappear.
Not today, though. Today, his mind had decided to seize on the stories his long-dead father had told about the concentration camp. About how his initial confusion and fear had faded into a numbness impervious to the death and suffering of others. About how the cruelty of the guards and the desperation of the prisoners eventually became indistinguishable. And finally, about what it was like to watch your humanity slip away.
When Dresner had first heard the stories—at what now seemed like an impossibly young age—his father was still trying to understand what had happened to his people and had been strangely desperate not to place blame. The average German had known nothing of what was happening, he’d said. Only a twisted few were responsible for the evil that had overtaken his country.
He’d believed deeply in the communist ideal and had been proud to use his scientific gifts for the collective good. But then he began to change. The drinking had started, as had long bouts locked alone in the cold, mold-scented basement. He spoke less and less, but when he did, his words no longer forgave. Of course, the German people had been lied to, he would slur beneath the dim light hanging over their rickety kitchen table. But the truth had been right in front of them. They’d just refused to look at it.
And so it had come as no surprise when Christian’s parents scooped him up and took him away in the middle of the night. Marxism hadn’t delivered the contentment and equality it had promised. Instead, it had become just another weapon to be wielded by men with no conscience—men willing to do whatever was necessary to hold the reins of power.
It wasn’t the Nazis, his father had told him as they hid beneath the false floor of a farm truck. It was humanity itself. We were nothing more than hairless monkeys, driven by the same violent urge to survive that had been built into our primitive ancestors.
Of course, they had been captured at the first checkpoint. His father, a man of otherwise extraordinary intellect, had little in the way of guile. The German secret police, on the other hand, was populated by paranoid and sadistic men who understood how to use the dark side of human nature to turn neighbor against neighbor, to create a nearly inescapable web of informants, betrayers, and spies.
He’d never seen his family again. It was only in the last few years that the Stasi records chronicling their fate had surfaced. His father had continued to work under the unveiled threat against the lives of his wife and child, but died after only a few years of being forced to labor eighty-hour weeks. No longer of any particular use, his mother had died of tuberculosis in a Russian gulag, and he had been abandoned to an orphanage in central Germany.
His own intellectual gifts had been identified almost from birth but, as he grew, they became increasingly difficult for the local apparatchiks to ignore. He was eventually transferred to a boarding school where the state could decide whether he could be of use to the great Soviet experiment.
For a short time he, like his father, had been a rabid believer. After years living in violence and squalor as the son of a traitor, he’d seen the bureaucrats enslaving him as saviors, and he’d seen the opportunities they gave him as proof of the egalitarian superiority of communism.
Dresner could still remember the force of his need to belong to something greater than himself. To be understood and respected. To emerge from the shadow of his traitorous family and prove his devotion to the country that had embraced him despite his lineage.
It was a strangely happy—almost ecstatic—time in his life. But it hadn’t lasted. The promise of communism gleamed bright and then quickly burned out. Just as his father had promised.
Not long after he escaped, the entire malignancy called the Soviet Union had collapsed. But in many ways, that collapse had made the world even more dangerous. Humanity’s evil now churned quietly beneath the surface, growing at a geometric rate, but never coalescing into something tangible enough to fight.
The technology and social mobility that had once held the same promise as communism were again being twisted by a species that would simply not allow itself to live in peace and prosperity. Bizarre ideologies were replacing religion as the opiate of the masses and were being used by politicians to keep the common man off balance. Concentrations in wealth were returning to the corrosive levels of the distant past. Weapons of mass destruction were falling into the hands of fanatics. The world’s financial systems had become a boom-and-bust engine that enriched its participants while starving everyone else.
And the trend seemed to be an inescapable downward spiral. The growing choices in media allowed people to retreat from anything that didn’t reinforce their own prejudices—creating an increasingly xenophobic population consumed with passion and unencumbered by facts. Wars were being fought over resources that weren’t yet scarce, and democracy was deteriorating into nothing more than the tyranny of an ill-informed and superstitious majority.
He’d believed he could change it all. Like so many before him, he’d thought he could perfect humanity. Create a Utopia.
Dresner looked down at the snowflakes melting on the spotted, damaged skin of his hands. With another fifty years he would have succeeded. He would have triumphed where Plato, Marx, and even God himself had failed.
But that dream was dead—a victim of time and the encroaching frailty that he so carefully hid. Now the best he could do was take a place in history among the monsters he despised. It was the only way to give humanity the time it needed to save itself.