All The World

“The theatre, the theatre, what has happened to the theatre?”

- Danny Kaye, “Choreography,” White Christmas 1954

-0-

Legend had it that the performance I observed was the first ever recorded with omni-directional camera technology. It would go a ways to explain why the actors always held a prop of some kind. And showing true ingenuity, each prop was meticulously chosen to fit each character. Nothing ever held in their hand, or gestured with in emphasis could be called anachronistic or unfitting.

Sword held before him, the worthy and victorious thane asked a question of the Weird Sisters. They answered in haunting chorus, each with an idol in hand carved after, I paused the experience and read the interpretive text, ancient Pictish fashion. Simple workarounds and technological constraints added so much… substance to the performance.

I wandered around them to where Banquo stood, watching his old friend, and examined the shot from his perspective. Listened as the music changed, the winds louder and a grinding awareness on the ears of sands running out. If only I could meet the director who pioneered just this, dramatic irony is a delicate balance to strike.

Despite the shiver that went down my back as the strange women named his friend Thane of Cawdor, I grinned at the superb execution.

What I observed was not truly the first thing recorded with omni-directional cameras, such a thing would not be possible to know, lost as it was to time, but definitely the first we have. After the Majesty Accords restored peace to the NorAM continent, youthful rage had forced money into arts and culture which the population felt they had been neglected for too long. So, as soon as the technology was “complete” plans started being made to produce this.

With a wave of my hand, I paused the video and checked the academic notes attached to the omni-directional record (ODR) file. Exactly as I thought: as soon as the cameras themselves had been tested, a collection of film and drama professors from across post-Accords Turtisla (formerly NorAM) came together and began their own work. Skimming over the mathematics involved, I tried to find the thesis for recording such a cursed play first. Knowing but wanting the reassurance of text to reinforce my knowledge.

“Chosen with the intention of demonstrating the practical applications of this technology, the Macbeth was selected over Robin Hood (the most adapted fictional character to date) for the influence its writer has had over all English drama that came after. MacBeth is rightly considered one of his greatest works, and was selected over Hamlet for time considerations in the development of this effective proof of concept through its use of different relatable dramatic environments.”

What a proof.

The scene ended, and Duncan arose before me as though I had just entered through the flap of his tent on the field. No scents pervaded the scene, thank goodness. But the grimy realness of the place almost made me think there were.

A royal flourish greeted my entry and I beheld the king receiving Malcom and news. “Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not those in commission yet returned?”

I stepped around the holographic actors, rendered on all sides by the near-miracle that was the invention of ODR, and stopped behind Duncan. Dramatic irony had been chosen for the viewing of Duncan’s perspective as well. Though he appeared for all the world in fine health and strong in his reign, the lighting and music surrounding him told a different and sadder story.

Standing in triumph over his defeated opponent, Duncan should have been and was happy, life was going his way. Though lingering in the musical background, the Weird Sisters theme played like the tolling of a ghostly bell. Counting down to the hour of his death. Shades and spirits seemed to cluster around him, his advisors and retainers likewise in high spirits. Likewise shadowed, doomed by the narrative.

Duncan was happy. From his words to his stance to his face, joy for life and triumph radiated from the man. Around him, his advisors and commanders smiled and called out their approbation. Surrounded by a festival atmosphere as a messenger from the battle gave his report. Duncan smiled at the news of Glamis and company’s success, laughed aloud at their proclaimed victory, and gave orders for Glamis to be brought to him directly.

Music shifted again as Glamis entered, and I moved to stand behind him, observing the enfeoffing of Glamis with Cawdor. From this other perspective, the hidden language of music bespoke great and terrible things. The future shifted on this moment, lives hung in the balance, and the Weird Sisters theme played low like the haunting memory of prescient dreams. Destiny awaited Glamis/Cawdor as he stared disbelieving at his King.

Almost instinctively, I rewound the recording and moved so that I stood behind where Banquo would observe the honours being bestowed on his friend. Raising my hand again, I noted that the Perspective Director for Banquo lamented how few scenes he really got. Which played into my belief that great film making was tied to being creative with limited resources. Lighting, blocking, music, even the minute gestures requisite of exceptionally skilled thespians bespoke the slowly dawning horror of his final days.

Truer art I have never seen. Shame about what had to come next.

Banishing the ODR, I left the viewing chamber and strode towards my own version of destiny. Though I wondered, as I passed under the grand (and artisan-made) arches of the corridor, how an ODR of my own life would portray this moment. Glamis/Cawdor, His Majesty, or the doomed friend sacrificed on power’s altar. Which of their themes would dog my steps, if ever media was made of me?

“Ethically speaking,” said Johnson as I came through the door. She was arguing with Dubois again. “I think it’s all perfectly fine. These ‘people’ think, they believe with all their hearts, that what they’re about to experience is Just. Therefore, exposing them to the horror is nothing. Nothing!”

“I disagree,” he retorted. “You understand that torture, in any way, is fundamentally immoral, correct? The Categorical Imperative all but lays that out as scripture”

“You and your glorified golden rule,” said sneeringly.

I decided to intervene before the philosophical backhanding had a chance to devolve. Punches thrown philosophically still hurt, and bruised egos take longer to heal than broken noses. Especially when people who spend too much time in their own heads got involved. “Assuming you’d rather do your jobs than bicker, maybe we can get started?”

Johnson nodded firmly, DuBois refused to meet my eye. So he still thought this experiment was unethical. Good, every project needs a moral dissenter, otherwise we run the risk of achieving foolish certainty. A dangerous thing when combined with power. Johnson was all in favour, even looking down on our subjects as less than human. Also good, we needed an element of hatred just to make sure we didn’t take things too easy on our test subject.

“47 is ready,” she said, almost vibrating with excitement. “Can’t believe we got volunteers for this. I would have thought we’d need to use… their preferred methods.”

“You wanted that,” snorted Dubois. “You dream about getting the chance to be just. Like. Them.”

Characteristically, she ignored the jibe. In her mind, they were nothing alike. After all, their subjects were not human to her. An other that it was not only safe, but proper to treat poorly. It was one reason I had chosen her for this project, she lacked the moral compass to object to what we were doing. The larger reason, though, was that she knew how to bait the trap.

DuBois, on the other hand, was incapable of seeing a person as anything else. With his influence, hopefully we wouldn’t break anyone’s mind. Already he had restrained our worst natures, the side of people who wanted revenge against an evil we were thankfully removed from. If only because no one had yet been able to scare the population enough.

“These freaks,” muttered Johnson, carefully reading a fresh report on subject 47’s medical status, “collapsed the Democratic Age. They-”

“-did nothing,” I interrupted. “They were not there, not even born yet.”

She fell silent, and passed the report to DuBois for confirmation. He looked green, in fact if he had been standing, I would have recommended he sit down before he fainted. Luckily for the project, he read the report and signed off. All metrics we could measure were in the green, and that meant we could proceed.

“Phase one, start.”

One of the main screens flicked to life, showing me a distressingly ordinary man laying on a medical bed with eyes closed. A snaking network of tubes and wires spread from his limbs, drawing blood, maintaining hydration, measuring… medical things. I sighed, suddenly wishing that I had paid closer attention to the doctors as they explained the process to me.

He was speaking, talking almost like there was anyone who cared to listen. I tuned in for a moment, just in case he was withdrawing consent. But the man only muttered darkly about some of the medical staff’s ‘backgrounds’. If I had to pick one side out of two, gun to my head, I would have chosen Johnson’s. In a world of binaries, this man would have to die. Fortunately, I do not live in that kind of world.

It took a moment, a long moment. Then subject 47’s eyes closed, and a gentle ping from somewhere in my observation booth told me he was unconscious.

“Phase one, confirm.”

Reading a chart, DuBois confirmed that subject 47 was ready.

“Phase two,” I said, trying not to relish the words. “Start.”

For the moment, research and governments held monopolies over this latest evolution in entertainment. The private interests which had developed it promised - they always promised so much and delivered something… different - that it was the next great leap. The next big step for mankind. Maybe more impactful than Gagarin’s first orbit of earth or even Armstrong’s footprints on the moon.

“Latest innovations in Omni-Directional Recording technology!”

“More real than real!”

“Experience wonders and horrors from Rivendell to a Borg Cube.”

“Don’t just watch it, live it.”

Ran the ads.

I doubted it. Perhaps the greatest leap in art since the invention of computer rendering, but for all mankind? No. Then again, I wasn’t a historian, so maybe it would be. We can never know how impactful one act, invention, or person is until long after all the points are tallied and the statues unveiled.

“Sensory data is flowing,” said Johnson, reading a screen. “We’ve put him in Maximus’s place for now, walking through a wheatfield. Ready when you are.”

“GSD have mercy,” I muttered. Then, louder, “Phase three, start.” And subject 47 was yanked from peace to horror. I wondered how long it would take him to realize where he was. If he even would, people like him had a bad habit of rabidly desiring something they did not know or understand. Given my lack of faith in his ilk, I assumed that he wouldn’t deduce anything at all. Given his kind’s ‘affinity’ for education, I assumed he would miss every marker.

“Leon I want to say again that we can’t… should NOT meddle with his memories. Quite aside from the ethical implications, the science is untested and we don’t know what could happen.”

“Eye for an eye says he owes a debt,” grumbled Johnson in reply.

“We don’t visit the sins of the father on the son,” I said. “Besides, Dubois is right, and this guy’s just a run of the mill bigot. Nothing special. That’s why we chose him.”

“Are you ever going to tell us what happened to the first forty-six subjects,” asked Dubois.

“Dropped out, or failed out.” I sighed with intentional drama. “I don’t believe in doing things that will harm people intentionally, they couldn’t hack it, so we let them go. All except seventeen, but that was an accident. She didn’t deserve to die.”

“I don’t agree,” sniffed Johnson, finger hanging over the memory implant switch that, despite clear instructions, she had not removed as an option. “She got what she wished on millions of others, it’s only fair.”

“Going to make me file a report with administration?”

“No, Leon,” she banished the switch with remarkably bad grace. Maybe we should put her through the machine, complete with memory meddling. She might walk away with more empathy.

“Can he smell anything yet?”

“Looks like it’s taking longer to come through than we expected… all of it…Hmm…” DuBois fiddled with some settings, then called IT. “Okay, I confirmed that they’re having a spot of trouble with file translation. But he should be fully immersed in a few minutes.”

So all we had to was wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Infinite deities and the genocides they’re directly responsible for, I hate waiting. Looking down at the man on the slab, I entertained myself with a thought experiment from my first days at university. Tried to put myself into his shoes. Yes, I could see his perspective if I bent and warped the world as I knew it properly. Yes, I could understand his frustration and all the logically valid – by technicalities and a void of empty – thought paths that lead him to his worldview.

Though, I did fail to not relish his comeuppance. It was as Johnson said, this was the world he wanted to create. This was the experience he wanted to give to millions of others. And, even better, the stupid git had volunteered for this experiment. So I felt no sympathy, even if we had lied to him about the order of operations and the full program. No, not lied. Never lied. That would be illegal; loosely explained. He had experienced peace first. Should have asked better questions if he wanted anything other than what we were going to do to him.

Lights flashed across consoles and DuBois said, reservations stilting his words, “he’s in.”

-0-

47 awoke in darkness. Maximus’s words still ringing in his head, “you are in Elysium. And you are already dead! Already dead! Dead! Dead! Dead!” The smells hit him then, like a kick to the head, a cocktail crafted by dozens dedicated to their craft. He wretched.

To one side, a prisoner jostled him, muttering about the expelled filth. He wretched again, knees weak, trembling down to the shaking, soiled ground. It was pure black in the room, stuffy and hot. So very hot. On all sides, bodies pressed against him, reeking bodies. Black, lightless, but not silent space.

Around him, prisoners wept. Terrified men and women and children, huddling close and sobbing. Sobbing. Sobbing.

(“He’s scared,” DuBois watched 47’s vitals, making sure that we weren’t causing any physical damage. “All lights still green.”)

He was asked a question, then another. Hands clawed at him, pulling at the thin cotton clothing he wore, trying to keep him on his feet. The voices spoke a language he did not understand, an old one from the middle of Xirope. Likely one he never even considered existing. They were asking if he knew what was happening, they were asking him if he could help them.

With a shuddering rumble, the floor stopped shaking. Miniscule tremors still ran through it, echoes of whatever energy had been propelling the vehicle. Had he realized what he was in yet? I doubted it, he still had not said or done anything but make a mess on his neighbours. The taste of that bile was in his mouth, the system was working beautifully.

Cool air blew through a crack, carrying with it nearly blinding light as the door slowly slid open. Around him, people cringed and gasped, hands moving to cover their eyes. For his part, 47 lunged towards the door, clearly desperate to escape. Desperate to have room to move his arms, to be free.

(“Yeah, that’s it,” snarled Johnson. “Run to the light you filthy swine.” But I ignored her, keeping an eye on her console commands and increasing the delay time between input and output. Let her hate 47 and all like him, it motivated her part of the programming.)

Looking through 47’s eyes on the monitor, I saw the blinding whiteness fade slowly. Too slowly, that would have to be updated. And watched as figures and shapes slowly resolved, shadows emerging from brightness to blight his life and his memories forever. I hoped.

Others followed him off the train, it was now obviously a train, falling from the carriage to the hard packed earth. So many feet had trampled down the grass, killing it with their sheer mass and packed the clay to almost stone. I leaned forward, waiting for him to get it.

My hopes were dashed, though. He looked around, readings showing confusion slowly overtaking the fear. The dread. He was aware that he was in a simulation. It was what we had promised him, after all. But was there a thread of uncertainty running through his thoughts somewhere? We couldn’t actually read his thoughts, not yet. Only interpret his emotions, lovely measurable emotions.

“Aufstehen!” A voice from the world beyond the smell and the darkness shouted. “Ihr anderen, steigt aus dem Zug! Raus! Raus! Jetzt schnell!”

(“Confusion now. And… yes cortisol levels and other stress indicators rising.”)

Shuffling feet, more shouting, women and children sobbing in terror as they stared wildly around themselves. Through 47’s eyes, we watched soldiers in iconic grey uniforms with red flashes slowly bring order to the terrified chaos. They were still speaking, long strings of old Teutonic words in calm tones. They didn’t want any trouble on the platform.

His field of vision tracked down, breaking away from the terrified people and leafless trees, away from the watch towers and too-young faces of smiling guards. Sewn onto the left-hand breast of his shirt, he saw something that made his heartrate skyrocket. An old sight, familiar from the pages of history textbooks barely remembered from school. A yellow star on striped pyjamas. As Johnson would say, exactly the kind that 47 wanted to force others to wear.

47, numb now according to his readings, shuffled into line. I ground my teeth at the inability to actually read the other man’s thoughts. Morals and ethics are wonderful things, the sanctity of one’s own mind is, of course, paramount. But what could we learn if only we had the ability… Johnson would have her chance to test the memory implants eventually. Assuming she passed enough ethical reviews beforehand. I personally loved the idea but hated the thought of her pressing the buttons.

People milled around him as soldiers made a show of counting them – as if any could have had the chance to flee a locked cattle car – then closed in and pushed them forward. Finally looking up, 47’s eyes tracked over the gate.

(“Heart rate spike,” said DuBois. “He’s figuring it out.”)

Over the gate in wrought iron sat three of history’s most infamous words. They grinned down at him like the teeth in a death’s head grin. He started babbling. A rifle butt, gently at first then with greater force, hit his back, forcing him forward. 47 was shouting now, trying to tell his captors that he did not belong, that he was not one of them, not a (several violent slurs). Exactly as history demonstrated, none answered him.

His role was to experience, to watch powerlessly as they pushed towards and then under those terrible words.

“Arbeit Macht Frei.”

47 began screaming. We only watched.

Until…

-0-

“What’s happening?” I nearly spat the words as the screens went black. For a moment, barely a few seconds, a progress bar appeared, filled, and vanished. “What was that? Dubois?”

“No idea, Leon… it’s… I don’t have control over anything. His readings are going crazy!”

To one side, Johnson cackled. Rounding on her, I stormed across the booth and shoved hard, forcing her away from her own console. As she sprawled out of her chair and lay, still cackling, on the ground I took her spot and scanned the long string of locked-in commands. Distracted by 47’s sensory data, I hadn’t noticed whatever she was doing until the delay I programed in expired. Until control of the experiment was torn away from me.

“What did you do!?”

“Sped things up a little,” she was till laughing. “Now we get to see if he breaks. You’ve read the bastard’s socials; you know what kind of freak he is. He wants to put others into this situation, I wanted him to experience the whole thing. And so what if he dies? There’s enough of his kind to find another volunteer.”

“Sped things? What did,” I flicked through tab after tab, knowing that with every second something was happening. Something beyond my control and potentially violating hundreds of laws and ethical constraints. But, knowing who and what Johnson was, I already knew what new torments she had thrust our unwitting subject into.

On screen, the blackness faded and 47 now stared at a low, grey building. His readings told us that he was tired, malnourished, covered in insect bites and bruises. One of his bones had been broken somehow and had healed poorly. New readings about his emotional state flooded in, hopelessness. Bleak hopelessness.

I stood from the chair and watched in stunned silence as 47, in line with hundreds of other people, was pushed into the building. On the wall was a small plaque that read ‘duschen.’

“The pig’s memories are full of six months in that camp,” there was so much satisfaction in her voice, but she made no attempts to rise. “And now it’s time for the grand finale. Go ahead and try to pull him out, I locked it and the rest shouldn’t take more than 5 minutes. Then he’ll wake up. After watching everyone around him choke out their last as he suffocates but doesn’t die. We’ll see if he still believes that filth now.”

Her laughter was high and shrill.

“You…” I struggled t find the words. “You’ve done irreparable damage to this experiment. You’ve… we could ALL be jailed for this! And you’re… laughing?”

“Maybe you’ll get a talking to. Me? I’m going to jail, probably. Lose my license definitely. But think about the progress I just made. You want to call it immoral? Evil? He’s one of them,” she pointed at the uniformed youth pushing 47 through the door and into the stinking darkness. “Don’t try and make me feel sympathy because he finally knows what what he wants to do to others feels like.

“DuBois,” I started, but he cut me off.

“She’s right. We won’t know until he wakes up,” on screen the door sealed and people started to die. “But… fuck… at this point, it would be wrong to not use the data. If it worked, then this… Jesus…”

Johnson continued cackling to herself as 47’s emotions went wild. He could feel the gas burning his skin and lungs, was forced to watch, hear, and feel the others die while he stood impotent in the centre of his neighbors for the past half-year. A lone man surrounded by the dead until the picture faded.

“Maybe I’m a monster,” she said, sighing with a contentment that I’m only used to hearing from satisfied sexual partners. “But tell me he didn’t deserve that.”

“No one does.”

“Agree to disagree,” she waved lazily. “But once we know it works, tell me that the government and investors won’t be clamouring for more. On my sacrifice, we’ll finally be able to get rid of them forever.”

“You’re wrong,” muttered DuBois. “What qualifies a person to have… this done to them? You’ve only empowered more torture.”

“Then at least it will be against ‘people’ like him.”

What would the future legends have to say about subject 47? About the people who had tampered with his memories, the foundation of who he was just to see if they could change his politics and inject a little empathy. Dubois’ constant whingeing about the categorical imperative filtered to the top of my mind, to treat each person as an end in and of themselves… the foundation of humanism…

Of course, Johnson had been right; we were lightly scolded. The administration was over the moon with the results. Even as she was shipped off to be rehabilitated, more funding flowed down to us from on high and with it with came a flood of new staff all exuberant to work on something genuinely Earth-shakingly innovative.

DuBois and I got awards, our faces on magazines. 47, I looked him up not long after we let him go following the extensive debrief, never even made it home. His body was found floating in the river almost immediately. The trauma we had inflicted on him was too much, and Johnson got her wish: One fewer of them.

Later I heard Johnson never made it to the rehabilitation centre but was instead redirected to a secret research division. Infinite deities have mercy.