The Absolved Read online

  The Absolved

  Matthew Binder

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-7324007-3-3

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  Cover design by Najla Qamber

  Edited by Melissa Ringsted

  Interior design layout by Rebecca Poole

  Black Spot Books

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  ©2018 All rights reserved.

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  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to the city of Budapest, you treated me well.

  Praise for Matthew Binder

  "A blistering account of an America with few jobs and no purpose. This is a funny, fast-paced novel with its finger on this country's dying pulse." – David Burr Gerrard, author of The Epiphany Machine

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  “The Absolved is a thinking person’s novel. Dramatic and well written , this dystopian trip to a robotic future has everything : lust, law, medicine, betrayal, politics— even love. As humans struggle to retrieve their humanity from the robots who have taken their jobs and self worth, one man—a doctor— has the opportunity to be a hero or villain. This book will keep you up at night wondering what our future holds.” – Alan Dershowitz

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  “With touches of Vonnegut and Huxley, Matthew Binder delivers a darkly funny look at a future we’re most likely stuck with.” – Seth Meyers

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  “In The Absolved, Matthew Binder has delivered us a devastating portrait of where we are imminently headed. Through his narrator Henri's fopperies, ranging from the affair to the revolution, Binder's novel is an ode to the imperfect and hilarious beauty of being human.” – Hannah Lillith Assadi, author of Sonora

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  “Dysfunction—in the father and in the patriarchy that’s to blame for most of this world’s current ills—is the theme of Matthew Binder’s novel The Absolved, and never have we seen it more brilliantly skewered or sadly portrayed. Hilarious as Vonnegut in Cat’s Cradle, terrifying as Lewis in It Can’t Happen Here, Binder offers us a parable for a future that could as well be our present, neither of which we should be proud to call our own. Eerie in its insight, lacerating in its wit, merciless in its conclusions, this is a book liable to become an instant classic. Binder points the finger in these pages, and names the names. He is an oracle for our time.” – D. Foy, author of Made to Break

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  “The Absolved shines an unapologetic spotlight on the malaise and absurdity of an America whose soul has been sucked out by an over-dependence on artificial intelligence -- a journey that feels as poignant and honest in today's world as it does in Binder's techno-dystopia.” – John Cunningham Ph.D., AI professor, Columbia University

  1

  I’ve just suffered an accident while driving to meet Taylor, an entirely lovely woman who’s not my wife. It’s nothing serious—the accident, that is—just a crumpled fender and a sore elbow from the impact … more of a nuisance than anything else. I am, after all, a busy man on a tight schedule.

  There must be two dozen passersby who’ve stopped to stare. You’d think I just had a six-car pileup from the spectacle I am.

  “Go on,” I tell them. “Nothing to see here. Everything’s fine.”

  These days, ever since self-driving cars became the law, this sort of thing is rare. I almost can’t remember the last time I got stuck in traffic due to a wreck, and fatalities are way down, ninety percent in six years, if I remember the statistic correctly. No more good-timing drunks on the road, at least not behind the wheel. Just like that, a scourge of suburban American society was eradicated forever. A lot of good it does me, though! Where were these marvels of human innovation when I needed them most? It’s regrettable to admit, but before I had a bit of money in my pocket, I had something of a reputation for irresponsible driving. Even so, our technology is far from perfect. My car just hopped the curb and hit a streetlight.

  I trace a square before me, opening my hologram.

  “Insurance company,” I say, and Kaylee appears, her face a composite of two of my favorite actresses.

  But no sooner have we exchanged some pleasantries than she assaults me with questions. She’s skeptical of my explanation for the accident. It seems she suspects I’m at fault. The insinuation is that I’ve tampered with the vehicle. That’s a very popular thing to do these days, especially with the kids. They watch the old films in which cars meant freedom, rebellion, and sex, and they want it for themselves. People are bored of being chauffeured around, so they attempt their own retrofits, to take back some control. Kaylee has repeatedly informed me that making such a modification is a felony, punishable by fine or jail time.

  She puts me on hold, and I turn on some music to pass the time. Chloe, my car’s OS, is also upset. I refuse to listen to the playlists she’s made. She insists she knows my tastes better than I know them myself, which, I assure her, can’t possibly be true. Besides, at forty-seven years of age, I don’t do playlists. A thousand times I’ve told Chloe I like albums, but without fail she tries to persuade me that they’re an antiquated mode of consumption. They lack the consistency of quality and flow, she maintains, that only a machine can deliver.

  On most occasions, after much opposition and reluctance, Chloe will generally acquiesce and play any of the two dozen garage rock bands from my youth that I still listen to with great piety. But today, she’s forcing Rachel’s music on me. Rachel has wholeheartedly embraced the technology-driven cultural shifts of the past twenty years with nary a gripe. It bothers her not one bit that it’s been years and years since a tune penned by an actual human being has made any kind of splash.

  “The machines are superior to man in almost every way imaginable,” she once said. “Why else would we have turned over all of life’s m
ost important functions to them?”

  A song written and recorded by an algorithm named Nevaeh comes blasting from the speakers. I immediately recognize the chorus, comprised of this sequence of notes: A, C#, Eb—what’s come to be known as the “Melody Monetizer,” because in 2032, a research project led by a team of A.I. determined that this particular arrangement is the most pleasing to the human ear, and, thusly, the most profitable. A recently released study shows that ninety-two percent of contemporary pop songs and commercial jingles now use it.

  “Can’t you find me any Talking Heads?”

  “I’m sorry, Henri,” Chloe says, “but the Talking Heads are on my no-play list.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Rachel gave me a list of bands I’m no longer allowed to play for you.”

  “In my own car?”

  “Rachel doesn’t like guitar music, Henri.”

  “But she’s not here now.”

  “It’s out of my hands, Henri.”

  Kaylee returns to the line. She’s completed her remote assessment of the vehicle. The miracles these modern-day machines can perform is beyond me. It seems each new day gives us fresh ways in which they can enter what was once private. Thinking about this sends me to despair. I engage the breathing practice my yoga mentor has taught me, and repeat my mantra—“There is the nothing that is there, and the nothing that is not there”—until Kaylee informs me that I’m “not guilty.” The culprit: my software had failed to update.

  To meet with Taylor, I’ve told Rachel I’m on-call. While technically this is true, I’ve bribed one of the younger doctors to cover for me, promising him a weekend at Serena’s beach house. This is just one of the perks of having your best friend from medical school as your boss.

  I’ve taken a room at a hotel in Oakland, far from anyone who might know me. It’s a place Taylor read about on a trendy lifestyle hologram, a spot the young techies go to drink and take drugs, swim in the pool, and enjoy their elite status.

  I arrive first, check-in, and go to the room. It’s really very impressive. It comes with a well-stocked bar that includes liquors of all variety. There is a bright-burning neon sign reading, “EXIGENCY,” mounted on the wall, and a chandelier of loose hanging lightbulbs of different shapes and sizes. The finest touch is a claw-foot tub in the bathroom. I pour myself a whiskey on ice and sit inside of the tub.

  My excitement to spend time with Taylor is of course hampered by nagging guilt. It’s not like tonight is the first time I’ve done something like this, but it hardly gets any easier. Every time I finish with one of these flings, I convince myself that I’m through with it, that I can re-commit myself entirely to Rachel. But these sorts of situations have a funny way of sneaking up on you. I consider them my passionate curiosities. None of them really mean anything, and it’s not like they diminish my love for my family. If anything, I think these dalliances may strengthen the marital bond. Every time I come home after one of these bouts, I see Rachel with fresh eyes and feel a renewed sense of fidelity.

  Here’s the thing: since my son, Julian, arrived seven years ago, Rachel has turned quite frigid in the bedroom.

  For a while, at least, we tried to maintain a strict love-making schedule. Every Thursday night, Rachel would hire a babysitter, and I’d pick her up after leaving the office, and we’d go for dinner and drinks. Then we’d retire to a hotel, similar to the one I’m at now. I’d climb on top of her and push it in and out for a while, and then she would bounce up and down on it for a time, and then, finally, I’d get behind her, grab a fistful of hair with one hand and smack her bottom with the other, and I’d thrust and jab away until we both had finished. Then we’d lie there for an hour, generally not saying much, before we dressed and returned home to relieve the sitter. It was all perfectly pleasant, but there’s not a routine in this world that doesn’t become stale with enough time. After a few months, we started skipping an odd Thursday, then we’d only make time for our sacred trysts once a month, and not too long after, we abandoned the scheme altogether.

  When Taylor knocks at the door, I try to stand without putting down my drink, but instead lunge into the tub’s faucet and soak my pants.

  “You look like a million dollars, maybe even two million!” I say to Taylor.

  These are not empty compliments. Taylor is stunning. She possesses a distinctive aesthetic, nearly gothic in nature, a fetish of mine since boyhood: a fair ivory complexion, hair as black as a raven’s wing, delicate nose, heavy make-up on the eyes and ultra-red lips—thin as a waif.

  “You couldn’t wait for me,” she says, gesturing to my pants.

  “Problem with the tub,” I reply, turning red.

  I fix her a drink. She stands next to the bar, awkward, and with every delicate sip the sleeve of her shirt rides up her arm to expose a row of circular-shaped scars. I consider asking about them but decide that the mystery is more alluring than any explanation might be. Besides, it’s plain she’s uncomfortable that I’ve seen them, which is the last thing I want. I can’t help but think of Taylor with anything other than sweetness and pleasure. In many ways, this is so much better than love, because it causes no harm or violence against my heart.

  We undress and begin to have sex, but it’s going poorly, strange for me, a man of advanced age and experience. I can’t remember having performed this badly since high school. It’s my own fault, no doubt. In a rush to leave for work this morning, I failed to masturbate in the shower. From the very first pump, I’m at the edge. Desperate to prolong the experience and salvage my dignity, I engage every known technique to alleviate the pressure. First, I imagine a basket full of dead puppies—six tiny, lifeless basset hounds. But this does nothing to remedy my situation, so I consider my Aunt Lucille naked. This, too, provides no relief. Finally, I pose myself an arithmetic problem: ((38 x 6)/4) x 3—yet again to no avail: I’m a whiz at math, and the answer comes immediately. “One seventy-one!” I cry, and explode.

  Taylor pats me on the head like a child or a pet, and I roll away to stare at the ceiling and heave. There’s almost nowhere in the world I’d rather be less. The presence of someone who’s witnessed my inadequacy is physically painful. I’ve spent my lifetime striving for excellence, and most of the time I’ve accomplished exactly that. As a boy, I was a first-rate shortstop on my Little League baseball team. Later, I dedicated myself to music. For a stretch, there was no one writing better tunes. After I became convinced there was no future in the arts, that if I kept at it I’d die in poverty, I settled on medicine, because it makes me indispensable in the economy. As it happens, I’ve done very well for myself and am highly esteemed in the field of oncology. Just last week, my name was printed in one of the top medical journals for a contribution I made to a study in Chimeric Antigen Receptor T-Cell Therapy. But here I am now with this beautiful young lady, an incompetent laughing-stock, all of my hard work washed away and meaningless after one bad round in the Service of Venus. How is it that I woke up this morning thinking I was invincible?

  Taylor lights a cigarette and draws a bath. Still reeling from my failure, unable to face her, I sneak glances through the door. I know as a doctor, specifically a cancer doctor of all things, that I should have an extremely adverse outlook on cigarette smoking, but I cannot. Before I am anything in this world—a doctor, a husband, a father—I am a man of vice. There’s nothing more seductive than a beautiful woman who knows how to smoke. It’s the most suggestive and alluring act known to humankind, against which I’m powerless.

  Watching her, I’m driven nearly to the brink. The prospect of all that thick smoke filling my lungs, the warmth of the grit on my lips, and the lingering scent of tobacco clinging to my fingers, fills me with the courage to stride naked across the room to retrieve my aims. Besides, when else might I get another chance to partake in such an activity? These days, like lions on the Serengeti, cigarettes are rare, symbols of a bygone time. Ever since we moved to a nationalized healthcare system, there
’s been a virtual prohibition on these great givers-of-pleasure. Spending fifty-five percent of its budget paying for the care of its citizenry, nearly bankrupting the whole country, there’s no way the federal government is going to tolerate this sort of behavior.

  I climb into the tub behind Taylor, and she leans back, pressing her body against me. Notes of vanilla flood my senses, sending me into a state of bliss. I wrap an arm around her chest. She tenderly kisses my cheek. We take heavy drags off our cigarettes and watch the smoke swirl round the chandelier, dissipating across the room. There is nothing sweeter in a woman than her desire to give over her will to a lover’s care.

  “You’re too good to me,” I say. “How can I make your life a bit better?”

  “There’s nothing.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I wouldn’t think of asking anything of you.”

  “Maybe I can help you get readmitted into medical school?”