Charybdis

By Carlos Wiggen

After the flood 7

Charybdis, part of After The Flood, is a volume with related stories dealing with what happens on the mainland parallel to the dramas on the coasts and at sea and, the characters involved in them. The story lines are kind of a puzzle and require a good memory. Toward the end, the two main lines melt together and, forge the last part of this section, preparing the reader for the conclusion of the epic: “The Boat People.”

CW


Carlos Wiggen also wrote:

“Kant and the Barbarians”
“Philosophy at Gunpoint”
“The Nazil Grail”
“The Spine of Western Culture”
“Doctot Todt”
“The Girl from the Faraway Land”
“The Nemesius People”
"APOS"
"The Falkenberg Run"
"Life In The Times Of Perdition"

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665596640

Carlos Wiggen

Carlos Wiggen also wrote: “Kant and the Barbarians” “Philosophy at Gunpoint” “The Nazil Grail” “The Spine of Western Culture”

Book preview

© 2022 Carlos Wiggen. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  02/04/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9665-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9664-0 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Part 1     Capitano

Part 2     Derek, Carrie, and the Traitor

Part 3     Sophie

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Charybdis, part of After the Flood, is a volume with related stories dealing with what happened on the mainland parallel to the dramas on the coasts and at sea and the characters involved in them. The story lines are a puzzle and require a good memory. Toward the end, the two primary arcs merge and forge the last part of this section, preparing the reader for the conclusion of the epic, The Boat People.

PART 1

CAPITANO

The assassination of President John F. Kennedy on November 22, 1963, sent shock waves throughout the world and produced reactions in every corner of global society—from the Vatican to African Americans surviving in ghettos to lines of hopeful immigrants to Moscow intelligence bureaus to the Capitol to a primary school in Tallahassee, Florida, where it resulted in a schoolyard fight. Ennio, a.k.a. Henry Capitano, son of Italian immigrants, looked like he was seriously down as the bully, whose name he did not even know, prepared to slam his head into a concrete-surrounded flower arrangement.

Henry, small for his age but quick, kicked the foot of the advancing meathead with his pitch-seam boot, upsetting the brute’s balance. Kicking him in the groin with his other foot, he then quickly rolled over as the roaring colossus came crashing down. Henry was on his feet again, ready to deliver a kick to the temple, but Ronald Benz, an African American athletic trainer, broke into the ring of excited pupils and stopped the ensuing temple kick by grabbing young Capitano by the collar and lifting him clear off the ground.

You know, such a kick could kill someone.

I’ll make a note of that, Henry said, pleasantly surprised.

The bully, getting back up again, seemed primed for another head-on assault. Benz stepped between them, facing the aggressor.

Bruce, over to the other side of the yard!

Bruce glared at Henry. Spic!

Benz gave him a moderate kick in the ass. The other side, d’you hear!

Bruce walked away.

Henry stared at him, furious. I’m no spic. I am Italian. My name is Ennio, not Henry, because in Italian that is Enrico, but that is my dad’s name, so they baptized me Ennio, Italian for Ennius, ancient Roman author, you ignorant meatball, but I accept Henry because that’s all you lot are capable of—

Shut up! Benz yelled, waving the bystanders away and turning to Henry. You are Italian American. That’s what the fight was about?

That rhino attacked me. He called me a wiseass.

What did you say to him?

He was going on about the assassination of the president—said his dad meant it was meaningless.

So?

I said meaning doesn’t exist outside his fat ass. He took it personally.

Benz looked at Henry, puzzled.

Look, you kids are in first grade. Where did you hear that?

Henry thought for a moment. "In Dad’s Encyclopedia Americana. It says the Greek word for meaning was dynamis, as in dynamic and dynamite."

Meaning is dynamite? Benz said, chuckling.

Henry nodded, pensive.

It is in you and in your mind. It comes out as planning, resolve, getting ready for something with a goal. There is no larger meaning of it all elsewhere. That’s delusional.

Benz took a step back, mystified.

"And, uh, where did you find the Encyclopedia Americana?"

Dad’s library.

Benz visited Henry’s dad that afternoon, in their bungalow, nicely situated near a marina with a view of the sound. Enrico Capitano, in his thirties, with a casual air, looked kindly at him, smiling as he offered him a cup of tea.

It seems you have a precocious son, Mister Capitano. Enrico nodded.

Don’t we know it. His grandfather was the same. It’s a pity we don’t have money to send him to a more fitting school. What has he done now?

Told the wrong person divine meaning does not exist.

Enrico chuckled. Touching a raw nerve—he has a knack for that.

He said he finds that kind of stuff in your encyclopedia.

"There and in periodicals like Scientific American. He files them, turning part of the attic into a library."

Benz sipped his tea, still perplexed. Most of his classmates can hardly read.

Enrico sighed. What can I do? I drive the school bus; my wife cleans apartments. We have told him to keep his mouth shut when someone starts showing off because an athlete he is not, at least not yet.

Benz gazed out the window. I run a gym.

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By 1974, close to his eighteenth birthday, Henry found himself in Benz’s gym. Hammering a well-protected sparring partner in the boxing ring, the young welterweight seemed to relax for a second. Benz, ringside, glanced at his wristwatch while two enthusiastic girls started hopping and shouting, Finish him off! But Henry kept slowing down. His partner took advantage of the situation and went for him, but Henry suddenly exploded a series of combinations that sent him to the floor.

Benz laughed. That’s it, Captain!

Henry helped up his sparring partner, mock frowning in the direction of Benz. It’s Capitano!

Got to live with that from now on, Henry. His partner grinned.

Unless you prefer the Tallahassee Greaseball, Benz growled, heading toward his office.

The sparring partner, almost on his feet again, laughed. Henry let go of his grip, and his partner ended up on the floor again, groaning and massaging his tailbone. Henry climbed out between the ropes.

Douchebag.

Benz, in his office, went through the day’s mail. Someone was taking a shower on the other side of a half-open door. Benz opened a package and unrolled an issue of a periodical with a cover picture of the double helix. Henry, a towel around his waist, came in from the back room.

Benz looked at the cover, puzzled. What is that? A ladder for sadomasochists?

Henry took the periodical as he sat down, opening it.

Benz shrugged. We should talk about that next fight. You’ll be facing a seasoned welterweight.

Henry kept reading, letting out an absentminded, Uh-huh.

A good many knockouts, Benz murmured, reading a list.

Henry continued reading, more concentrated, turning a page.

Benz continued his soliloquy. A combination like the one you delivered up there today—

Biotechnology, Henry said.

Benz eyed him, nonplussed.

Henry nodded to himself, still reading. Genetically modified organisms—that’s it.

That’s what? Benz asked, but Henry was already out the door.

Redesigning man.

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An old badly kept bicycle, half tilted, stood against a wall next to a half-open door with a sign marked Admittance.

You are qualified to enter into higher education, it seems, a female voice said.

The bike fell over on its side, one wheel spinning slowly. Inside the admittance room, behind a counter and protected by an impressive coat of arms announcing that one was in the presence of Florida State University, a secretary leafed through various documents. Henry, on the other side, did his best to suppress his impatience.

You turned eighteen a couple of months ago. These papers—high scores here. Did you study for yourself every day?

Unobserved by both of them, a lanky, red-haired white lady in simple but elegant attire came over to the deck from outside, eyeing Henry discreetly.

I’m a fast reader, he said to the secretary, pushing a thick, loosely bound script and his birth certificate toward her, catching the interest of the secretary.

What is this? A novel?

Thesis, he answered.

Subject?

‘Mutation from Neanderthal to Cro-Magnon: A Case of Inadequacy.’ It’s over two hundred pages.

Flustered, the secretary looked from the birth certificate to the script. The red-haired lady drew closer but remained in the background, watching them. The secretary seemed to have a hard time deciding what kind of animal she was facing.

You want to start with a PhD, at eighteen?

Henry nodded. "The time is right. Have you gone through the latest issue of Scientific American?"

The secretary got up from her chair. The other woman seemed to lose interest and moved toward the open entrance door.

Excuse me for a second, the secretary said, heading for a pair of doors further back.

The lady came up to him again, touching his sleeve. See you outside, she said in a low, husky voice and moved toward the entrance.

He followed her with his eyes, puzzled, then opened the script and turned a couple of pages.

The secretary reappeared, embarrassed. Uh, could you come back tomorrow morning? We can have a look at the script in the meantime. She looked up and down the desk. The script and Henry were gone.

Outside, a bit further away, the lady sat on a bench, reading the periodical with the genetic ladder on the cover. Henry’s bike stood beside her. Henry, with the script in his armpit, came up to her, surprised. Why did you move my bike?

She rose and held out her hand. It fell, and some lowlife seemed to have designs on it. People call me Carrie.

They shook hands. She made space for him on the bench. He sat down, glancing at the periodical.

Reading about the DNA strain?

You are right, Henry, it is high time.

He looked questioningly at her.

How do you know my name?

I have had my eyes on you for some time.

Soviet intelligence?

She chuckled. I am independent.

Don’t like institutions?

They are like family. All they are good for on earth is to bury you.

He smiled, nodding approvingly at her quick wit. We should get married.

We are still in first round, welterweight, but let’s keep it in mind.

What is your position on Cro-Magnon?

A case of inadequacy—you said.

You disagree?

Not at all but, you nearly spilled the beans there.

How so?

When you give away your core argument in the title, on a campus, it could be all over for you right then and there.

Henry thought for a moment, then nodded.

You’re right. My worst enemy is my big mouth.

She got up and handed the bike over to Henry. They started walking away from the university, into a park. He glanced at her, curious.

You said, ‘People call me Carrie.’ Is there another name behind that?

Charybdis.

That rings a bell, but I cannot say right now—

"Famous monster from the Odyssey. Now, as for your future, I know a workshop, small but growing, private sector, where you would fit in perfectly."

And the marriage? Henry said, deadpan.

On hold but, don’t worry.

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In 1981, seven years later, Henry Capitano still looked like a welterweight boxer, but the fights were now virtual games played by high-ranking officers, like the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and carefully selected personnel from the State Department, the presidential administration, high-powered allies, and private companies with longtime connections to the federal government. What had begun as war games with tin soldiers on tables about 160 years earlier was now digitalized, run through the Pentagon’s computers, developed out from every conceivable premise or combination of premises from any position on the surface of the earth. In order to get through all this, robots began to fill in for conventional brains inside physical individuals, as they turned out to be selective, opinionated, delusional, and scrupulous. In short, prone to vagary.

This came to a head during a game—they were not called war games anymore but crisis and conflict games—that included situations in which nuclear weapons had to be used. Civil service participants had not been informed of this beforehand, because the nuclear option should itself come as a surprise.

As Paul Norman, the CEO of Crisis and Conflict Forum in Washington, DC, stepped out of the company car near the main entrance, a door sprang open, and a middle-aged executive, crying hysterically, staggered out, aided by two security guards.

What kind of people are you? he shouted. Press the nuclear button? It is not even our country; it is a proxy war thing! I would like to look that opponent in the eyes, but maybe he is a robot. That would be typical of you! Human beings do not cross that line! The day you do that, you will burn in hell forever!

The guards shuffled him into a waiting limo. More executives, distraught and downtrodden, followed. Henry, now twenty-five, stopped into the opening and looked in their direction, troubled. Paul, coming up the stairs, motioned toward the conference room. As they entered, a dozen colleagues waited around a table. The mood was tense. Paul, on the point of chuckling, sat down in the supervisor’s chair, indicating to Henry that he find a place somewhere. Paul looked at his team with mild reproof. Upsetting the entire State Department, Henry? What did you tell them? The truth?

Henry sighed. It started with two of them, then got contagious. Seems Ronald Reagan will have to clean up some more.

Maybe I should come with you next time, Paul said. It is our bread and butter, you know.

I’ve been thinking, Henry said, remaining serious. Most of these quarrels arise between people and robots. We are looking at the difference between human and computer logic.

Paul nodded, still amused. Well, there are people who are convinced the earth is flat or hollow, but we are not supposed to find them in the administration.

The human mind works selectively, according to values and emotions. Sir, we need to establish control over those variables, the human reactions, rather than being subjects to them.

Paul and the others listened. Some took notes.

Henry cleared his throat. Sorry, but humans can’t cut it.

We kill them all, Capitano? Paul said with a smile.

Henry threw up his arms in despair. It is beyond morals, ethics, and I don’t know what. What to do with the human race? I refuse to go Reinhardt Heydrich and the Final Solution.

According to scripture, the Lord himself gave up on them and sent a deluge, Paul mused.

But then he closed the holes in heaven. The rain stopped, and they came back. Henry