Joey Cloudy online

Isaiah Jones vs. the Sea (A 21st Century Odyssey) Singularity*

Afia heard the doorbell ring and opened it with a smug grin of triumph. She assumed it was Garrett Phillips, returning to take her up on her offer, apparently having had a change of heart and now fancying a shag before trotting back home to the wife.

When she opened the door, however, to her surprise, stood two dark-suited NIB agents—a man and a woman, both of formidable stature. The barrel-chested, greying, middle-aged man she recognized immediately, although they had never been formally introduced, he was a sentient shadow rarely seen outside the Unreal City. Chief Virgil Elinam Boateng’s, Director of the National Intelligence Bureau and the head of Emperor Jones’s personal security division. Which meant the muscular, handsome young woman beside him was his latest protégé.

Afia knew that men like Mister Boateng were not the sort to show up at one’s residence unannounced after midnight unless it was rather important. Shocked as she was initially by the sight of the duo, she quickly regained her composure and invited the two agents inside, “Oh, bother,” she sighed indignantly, remembering her manners. “You may as well come in,” she said, expansively sweeping her arm, gesturing for the two to enter, neglecting to even try to cover herself or fasten her Prussian green kaftan.

“Thank you, Madam Tagor,” Mister Boateng said with a slight bow before he casually stepped into the drawing room of the spacious beachside bungalow, where he began inspecting her artwork with the dispassionate curiosity of either an unwelcomed guest admiring his hostess’s décor or a realtor appraising a coveted piece of real estate.

“I am Agent Boateng with the National Intelligence Bureau, and this is my associate, Agent Francis. I apologize for the late hour, but we needed to speak with you in private.” Virgil arched an eyebrow as his gaze shifted from the Basquiat to Afia. “Alone.”

Afia smirked. “So, how long have you two dodgy government cunts been lurking about, spying on me?”

“We were here when your car arrived one hour and eight minutes ago, ma’am,” Kate Francis replied, her voice carrying the clipped authority of the West Indies East End. She stood just inside the closed door, feet shoulder-width apart, hands behind her back in a modified parade rest. The 24-year-old, dark-suited, Caesar-cut crowned agent was on alert. Her eyes were intense, and her senses focused.

“Drink, darlings?” Afia offered, running her fingers through her shoulder-length micro-braids as she strolled barefoot across the cool tiles of the bungalow to the bar.

“Yes, thank you, madam,” Virgil replied. When Afia glanced at the woman, she simply shook her thick head no.

“Your loss, sweetie,” Afia said with a shrug, refilling the glasses she and Garrett had previously used with more Malbec. She handed one to Virgil, who accepted it politely with a slight bow.

“Thank you, madam. I promise we won’t take up too much of your time,” he assured her, his Cambridge-softened Ghanaian accent smooth as suede.

Afia gestured toward the white lines of cocaine stretched across the bar’s surface, the segmented white trails running the length of the black marble top like a lost highway. She offered to share her bounty. When both agents declined, she pouted sarcastically, then leaned over the bar—this time forgoing the straw, simply pressing a finger against one nostril and inhaling deeply with the other. She repeated the process before dipping her middle and index fingers into her wine glass, tilting her head back, and inhaling the liquid that dripped from her fingertips to flush the residue from her sinuses.

“Marvelous,” she exclaimed as Virgil and Kate looked on, nonplussed.

Afia sauntered back into the drawing room and sat on the sofa across from the coffee table, facing Boateng and his number one, the burly-looking bear of a woman from Hackney, East London, Kate Francis. This Agent Francis was no mere suited brute. Afia made her living reading people and knew intelligence when she saw it. Francis was the sort of woman who had left the UK and joined the ADF for philosophical reasons, not just for the appeal of scientific socialism but because she understood Africa’s true history, not the white people’s fanfiction taught in Western academies. Agent Francis was an idealist, an Afro-pessimist, just like her mentor, Mister Boateng. And just like Afia.

Virgil sipped his Malbec and smiled. “Why do you think the AUA, whose mantra is ‘Africa for Africans’, and by Africans, means genetic Africans—black people, negroes reclaiming the lands stolen from them by European colonialists and their allies? Why do they only allow citizenship to the children of the diaspora? Do you think the West is clever enough to figure that out?”

He let the question hang in the air a moment before continuing.

“Today, the colonialist descendants of the Boers make up only seven percent of South Africa’s population, yet they own seventy-seven percent of the land, thanks in no small part to Mandela’s timorous actions after his release from prison. He expelled the true revolutionaries who would have continued the fight for wealth redistribution and land reform had he and his associates not had them all purged them from the ANC ranks.

Gandhi and the Indians sided with the Apartheid state as well. The craven pacifist’s only grievance was that Indians were treated the same as the kaffir—not as the Aryan brothers they imagined themselves to be.” He chuckled bitterly. “This is the truth of India’s culture. And so, decades later, we have a ‘free’ South Africa wearing blackface over white power. We will soon rectify the sins of the Berlin Conference.”

He took another sip, studying Afia over the rim of his glass. “No one questions Israel’s Zionist policy. No one challenges Japan’s racial homogeneity. You can live in China for a hundred years, but if you are white, you are just a gweilo, a round-eye devil occupying space in their territory. You will never be Chinese.

Africa is no different.

The AUA has no respect for deeds granted to colonialists by their European sovereigns or the settlers who claim our land. We act accordingly.”

These people are invaders, nothing more; the paperwork issued by European royalty and their duplicitous functionaries who never set foot on African soil, granting them deeds to the lands of the tribes, is useful only as toilet paper. The first phase of A4A is to purchase back the stolen property from the descendants of the settlers, but according to MOTHER, only a certain percentage will be reasonable and accept the state’s offer.

The others, well, they will dig in, fortify their positions, believing that their ancestors stole the land fair and square and that our land is theirs now, and that they are, no matter how allergic to the sun they are, real Africans. The agents both chuckled at this absurdity. They believe that if the white world, the EU, and the Americans see them being attacked by blacks, the Western powers will come to their aid. And they are not completely wrong.

The US and its allies will invade the AUA in 2033 regardless. But it will not be to save the descendants of the Boers, or the Portuguese, or the French from their fate; it will be to steal the resources they lost access to in 2023 when the African United Alliance was formed and MOTHER nationalized the new continental nation’s resources under a single currency.

The General Intelligence (GI/General Intelligence MOTHER) has predicted the year of the coming attack, and while she is not a seer, in the 13 years she has been online clandestinely advising the leadership of the 54 nation-states of the AUA, she has never given the council of elders or 10Q an incorrect prediction.

That is how we survived the two Western-backed coup attempts six years ago. MOTHER warned us ahead of the attacks; we knew who would betray the AUA and when three years in advance. So, 10Q, the council of honored elders, and the warlords all waited until the attack began, then sent in Isaiah’s Omega Squadron to capture the ringleaders, where they were publicly tried and executed, ending the civil war as quickly as it began.

Afia raised an eyebrow, slowly swirling the wine in her glass. “So, what exactly do you need me to do?”

“First, Mister Boateng replied casually, unbuttoning his blazer before he leaned back into the cushions of his chair, cease and desist all inquiries into the affairs of the Albino.”

Virgil laid a legal-sized manila envelope on the table between them. “Inside is everything you need to know about the Albino. Read it. And in return for your cooperation, we will fly you and your crew to Mexico, where you will spend a week aboard the yacht Hemisphere, we will arrange an exclusive interview with Isaiah Jones.”

Afia took another sip of her wine as she considered the agent’s proposal. As I am sure you already know, he has been in the United States visiting family while his ship is in for a haul out and refit in Mariana Del Rey. He will be leaving Las Vegas and heading to Mexico by morning. They will sail to Colombia from there. You will enjoy visiting the home of your favorite author, Gabriel García Márquez.

“And if I refuse?”

“Absolutely nothing, as far as our agency is concerned. However,”—Virgil gestured at the envelope— “please, finish reading before you make any rash decisions.”

Afia opened the manila folder containing a dozen pages that comprised the content of the files. The elegant cursive was unmistakable. The Cuban entrepreneur Naomi Galetea Cabala had been on the cover of Forbes magazine as the head of the island nation’s newest power corporation. No one outside of her inner circle knew of her association with the Caribbean mafia lord. She had written this herself. Her personal courier flew on her private Learjet to Port Garvey, International Airport, Ghana, from Santiago de Cuba and personally delivered it to Virgil to avoid leaving any digital footprints.

It was becoming apparent to her why the Albino chose Naomi as his Consigliere for his legal businesses. The former Delta Force Operative was a very clever woman, adept at covering her tracks. This was how the Albino had avoided detection for decades; no electronic communications, all evidence of his existence disappeared after he escaped the New Orleans orphanage at age six; he simply vanished. Of course, this is why her searches online came up empty; they kept their existence off the radar by using analog records only. After she reads it Mister Boateng will walk into her kitchen, place the pages in a Marseille bleu Le Creuset enameled cast iron skillet, and burn this file to ash.

It was less an intelligence report than a letter from a powerful woman in the employ of an even more powerful man to another.

It was a carefully worded warning. Naomi understood that the news network she worked for was a state-sponsored apparatus at the end of the day. This woman Afia had never met saw that she was in danger and, for reasons she could not comprehend, was throwing her a lifeline, shielding her from her profession’s hubris by sending her a message to be cautious before word reached her employer’s ears, and the Albino took matters into his own bloody hands.

“We have it on good authority that everyone involved is a fan of your show. Mister Boateng offered in a conciliatory tone. This has been Africa Tonight. Even Dead Eye Polly himself watches your weekly programs religiously. Still, the Albino has been known to react with the wrath of an Old Testament god when angered, and surely you must understand that it is not just your life, but the lives of your co-workers, friends, and family you would be putting in jeopardy should you decide to keep poking your nose into Señor Ovejero’s affairs.

It is Señor Ovejero who will arrange for you to meet with the emperor Jones; they are old friends. Isaiah will talk to you about anything, with the exception of the subject of our conversation tonight.”

“Isaiah was only 16 years old when he sailed from Galveston to Ghana alone seven years ago,” Afia said as she finished reading the report between sips of wine. “I have been an investigative journalist for nearly two decades, and one thing I know about men like your, Señor Polly Laveau Ovejero, is that the only way to gain their trust is to do their dirty work. Unless they know you are willing to bury the bodies of their enemies, they will not allow you to enter their circle of trust.”

Virgil nodded, his face a mask, an indecipherable scowl of indifference. “That may be true; he replied as he ignited his cigar lighter and lit the tip of his fresh Cohiba, a gift from our friends in Cuba. He paused as he gave the cigar a few quick puffs then exhaled a long grey plume of smoke into the air between them before he continued. However, officially, we have no evidence of Isaiah doing such a thing before his arrival.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Afia said, slowly swirling the dark vintage in her glass as she thought. Naomi could have had her courier deliver the message to her personally, yet she had it delivered by the federation’s chief intelligence officer as if he were the postman. “Why didn’t you just let this Dead Eye Polly monster kill me and be done with it? Why come to me all cloak and dagger with this terribly magnanimous offer?”

Mister Boateng looked over the rim of his wine glass and smiled.

“We are just following orders, madam.”

[Note 3]

MOTHER (MU TH UR Mainframe Unit / Turing-Hutter / User Responsive). The Turing-Hutter 9000, designed by a thirteen-year-old Isaiah Leonardo Jones, went online clandestinely in 2018. The rest of the world would learn of its existence three years later, in 2021—the world’s first and only sentient software, a general intelligence.

Western intelligence agencies, from DARPA to the NSA, referred to it simply as “The Singularity.” And considered the threat it possessed to be equal to a thermonuclear device. ICBM armed with nuclear warheads. The defense department wanted the new AI in their arsenal. When Isaiah Jones gifted his creation to the fifty-four nations of Africa, the U.S. State Department classified it as an act of terrorism and issued a record $25 million bounty for his capture—alive.]

About the Author:

JD Cloudy’s poetry has disappeared in Fatfizz, Mad Swirl, Texas Beat Anthology, Danse Macabre, Du Jour, and Death List Five. He has won no literary awards, entered no slam competitions, and never completed college. He lives to write in Dallas, TX.