The Matriarch Matrix

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.

—C.S. Lewis

Parkside, San Francisco, California

8:20 a.m. GMT–8, April 28, 2022

The fog. The fog billows by. The fog that surrounds during the night slowly retreats. So too begins the morning retreat of the infamous San Francisco fog, slowly but surely back into the Pacific, only to return once again every night. And so it has been for Peter Gollinger since he was born. The wet blanket of billowing fog all night is all his mind knows.

Half-awake, half still in the fog of a traumatic dream, in a full sweat, he bolts up out of bed, yelling, “I can’t kill. I can’t. What do I do?” Dazed, he looks at his clammy hands held out in front of him, shaking, gripping something.

Heart rate beyond tachycardic, clammy hands in tight fists, he looks around in panic for someone. “Where is she? Forget where, who is she? Oh, I wish, I wish I could remember these ordeals of my nights.”

Stumbling to his small bathroom, so tight his knees hit the wall when he’s seated on the squeezed-in can, he turns and looks around his one-room studio rental, the highest room in one of those pastel-colored stucco box houses that line the streets of this part of San Francisco.

“Did I just remember a dream? Did I just dream of a g*n? I hate guns. Why would I dream of things that scare me?”

He sighs again, looking at his war zone of a bed with the pillows bunched up and tossed about, the sheet and blankets in twisted spirals, flung in all directions. He glances back into the oval mirror over the sink in his small bathroom. He brushes back his sandy brown hair, with vestiges of the blondness of his younger days. He tries to smile to show his dimples, but he can only frown as the bags under his eyes signal the fatigue his nightly dramas bring. “If only I could get a restful night. Even once every new moon would do,” muses Peter.

A mug full of microwave-heated imitation gourmet coffee and Peter is ready to start his day at his dilapidated desk, perpendicularly placed next to his one window that provides just a peek of his precious Pacific fog. The walls of his tiny place are bare save three posters, ones that remind him of someone who meant so much to him. The newest with all the Starship Enterprises, from the 60s to the seventh of the reboot series. Another with all the alien gods and goddess of the Stargate franchises. And one emblazoned with the X-Files motto: I want to believe.

He clasps his MoxWrap around his wrist like a lucky rabbit foot. He needs some luck to go his way again. He could never have afforded one of these, but one day last year, MoxWorld Holdings sent him one free. Totally free, with no service fees, even. He won one of those contests where he answered a series of questions. Somewhat personal questions, but free is free.

MoxWorld clearly demonstrated to him why they were the worldwide leaders in all things digital. Out of nowhere, they even sent him a free upgraded unit last week. Other than the quite pleasant tingling feeling he gets from the occasional upgrade, what’s not to like?

He had to play a promo ad to activate this unit:

“The device sitting on your wrist now will change your life. For the better. The MoxWrap is simply revolutionary. Thin, flexible, and available in your choice of seven sizes that allow custom molds around any adult’s arm. Lighter than the now-obsolete smartphone, with the comfort of a terry-cloth wristband, the MoxWrap contains the power of a personal command center. With solar-assisted batteries, the run time vastly exceeds all previous options. You could be in the wilderness for days, and as long as the sun shines, you will have around-the-clock minicomputer power through its satellite links to hectares of processors, the largest databases in the world, and infinite memory capacity. Triple the bandwidth and burst speeds of the best alternative technology allows for applications never imaginable until now. Congratulations on a smart decision.”

He taps his lucky rabbit foot surrogate and the associated processor unit on his desk beams up a screen as well as a virtual keyboard hologram. Keyboards are the instruments of his music. Of his magic. For he is an editor. A copy editor, making the written work of others that much better.

He reads his messages, deleting all but the flagged one from MoxMedia he has kept for two days. Fingers tapping the desk, he waits for a message from his managing editor, Jerrod, with news of his bonus, as well as—maybe—an offer to become permanent and no longer a contractor. He rubs his MoxWrap again, wishing for luck.

He picks up an old-fashioned picture frame on his desk that holds an equally old-fashioned photo print of a woman. Someone else no longer in his life, who meant so much to him. She is attractively and tastefully posed, with her long dishwater-blond hair in a ponytail cascading down the front of her open plaid shirt, which is tied at the bottom, covering her sports b*a. Her raggedy blue jean cut-offs accent her lovely tanned legs, which slip right into her grey woolen socks, encased in her medium-height brown hiking boots. She was picture-perfect, his goddess at the top of Mount Shasta.

Catching himself lamenting about what once was, he puts a tank top and shorts on his lean runner’s body, one of average height for an American. Within minutes he is jogging down the Great Coastal Highway alongside his beloved Pacific Ocean. Running in the fog is his best therapy for the fog of his brain, trying to resolve what he cannot fathom during his dark dreams.

Walking up to his studio room after his morning ritual outing, he hears his MoxWrap sound. “Argh. Bus to the Angel’s Rest nursing home will be here in fifteen. Pappy will be so disappointed if I’m late. And Dr. Beverly. I hope she liked the final edit of her book.”

A quick shower and he pulls on jeans and a black t-shirt emblazoned with a yellow banana slug, mascot of his alma mater.

Looking out the bus window at his native California, Peter sees a land of cars, about sixteen million of them. People like Peter, who do not drive, who do not even have a driver’s license, who are creative in finding public transportation options—they are reducing society’s dependency on fossil fuels, the destructive addiction to gasoline that has governed global politics since the Second World War. As he rides the No. 397 bus from San Francisco to Daly City, he ponders. How many wars have been fought, in the name of God, in the name of democracy, in the name of whatever is painted to be “just,” to ensure that the oil flows and is affordable? Peter wishes someone could change this.

He taps his MoxWrap to watch the MoxMedia morning news program. The world-renowned newscasters Rhonda and Sahir blare out the latest global events on this Friday morning. “Coming up on MoxWorld News AM: In Washington, the president defends the previous administration’s America First policy as conflicts around the globe continue to escalate. The Great Depression of 2020 has left the country with such an unprecedented deficit that it can no longer afford to be the world’s policeman.

“In the Middle East, the price of oil fell through its previous floor of twenty dollars per barrel as the Arabic Confederation last night launched an invasion into Iran, while they amass troops at the Turkish border near Kobanî. Recall that back in 2020, the catalyst for the creation of the Arabic Confederation and the New Kurdistan out of the former Syria and Iraq was the price of oil tumbling below twenty-five dollars per barrel, sending the region into chaos once again. In Moscow, the Russian president issued terse warnings of military reprisal for the downing of three more Russian fighters in Turkey’s latest challenge to Russia’s no-fly zone over New Kurdistan, the two-year-old union of the Kurds in former Iraq and Syria. In the South China Sea, warships from China, Japan, and the Philippines face off. In Europe, the Great Recession continues to take its toll as France and Germany retrench spending again for the rest of 2022, announcing their inability to fund NATO obligations. More after these messages.”

Seeing Rhonda, with her salmon-colored blouse and lips tinted peach with lipstick from her signature makeup collection, now being advertised on his MoxWrap, makes Peter think of his sister’s commentary on how the CEO of MoxWorld controls women through the fashions of his female newscasters.

Peter arrives at Angel’s Rest, where Pappy has convalesced for the past four years. As the only grandson of Nikolas Gollinger, Peter carries a deep unspoken obligation, the only heir to the family mission his grandfather has passed along—their calling, their quest, their pursuit, their ancestral commitments.

Jenny at the front desk knows Peter very well, given how frequently he visits. Even the attending physicians do not come as often as Peter. “Good afternoon, Mr. Gollinger,” says Jenny teasingly.

“Jenny, it’s just Peter,” he banters back playfully.

“Mr. Gollinger is finished with his breakfast and is expecting you…Peter, Mr. Peter. Oh yes, Dr. Fontaine is here today. She would like to talk with you. Could you stop by her office?”

With a smidgeon of concern, Peter asks, “Anything out of the ordinary, Jenny? Is he okay?”

“Oh, no worries about Mr. Gollinger. I think Dr. Fontaine is looking for another special favor from you,” replies Jenny with an uncharacteristic schoolgirl-style giggle as she dials the intercom. “Dr. Fontaine, Peter Gollinger is here. Shall I send him down? Okay, he’s coming down now.”

With that, he is reassured and wanders down to the office that Dr. Fontaine uses when she is visiting patients at Angel’s Rest. He sees her waiting in the hallway outside her office. She’s more than an inch shorter than him, seeming even shorter as she wears sensible black shoes with the slightest of heels, which complement her brown hair, up in a tight professional bun. She wears a white physician’s coat tailored for a woman, unlike the flat draping ones for men. The coat is open and Peter can see she wears a white cotton blouse and grey wool pencil skirt underneath. It does not escape Peter’s attention that this is the first time he has seen her in a skirt, however businesslike, and not in dark slacks.

“Peter, please come in and sit down,” says the doctor as she waves him in.

Out of habit, Peter goes to one of two chairs on the patient side of the doctor’s desk. He looks at her business cards on the desk. Assistant Professor of Clinical Geriatric Psychiatry, UC San Francisco Medical School.

After hanging her white lab coat behind the door, which she closes, Dr. Fontaine opts to sit in the other patient chair, facing him with her legs crossed, top one pointing at Peter. “Once again, you are my hero. My savior. I finished reviewing all your changes and suggestions to my latest manuscript…our latest manuscript. You are simply a genius with ideas, thoughts, and words,” Dr. Fontaine says.

“Dr. Fontaine, of course—you deserve the best a simple editor like me can offer.”

“Peter, we’re behind closed doors now. Remember, you can call me Beverly when I’m not on rounds or with patients,” she replies with a smile. “You’re a special person. And I mean not just your editorial skills, but your compassion. I’ve never seen anyone visit their dearest family member in a convalescent home more than you. I think your visits have helped prolong your grandfather’s life, or at least improve the quality of it.”

“How is he doing, Doctor…uh…Beverly?”

“Dr. Elfante, your grandfather’s physician, mentioned to me on my last visit that your grandfather is doing well, considering the severity of his condition. Having been a smoker for most of his life has taken its toll on his lungs. He’s a real fighter, though. He’s determined to live for some greater purpose. Your visits are vital to his sense of purpose, Peter. You are his best therapy.”