η οικογένειά μου

We met at a Greek restaurant. The reason was obvious - family matters. A riff in the contingency plan. Someone had talked. The concern: to whom?

I showed up early, scouted the carpark for unexpected visitors, out-of-town plates, that sort of thing.

Inside, I looked around, verifying the empty tables, the views to the kitchen, the rear door and front entrance. Clear.

A new kid seated me at a table out in the middle, completely unaware of my relationship to the place. Nonchalantly, I asked her for a table away from the noise of the kitchen. Maybe she got my drift. I don't know. Important results: a quiet booth away from direct line of sight of those walking in or out.

I played the part well, acting nervous, watching the guests being seated, sitting up. Ordered the starter of the day and a tall whiskey.

Fifteen minutes passed. I followed orders and called my buddy on the mobile phone, establishing the time of day and meeting place, like sending up a flare to those whose attention we wanted.

Ten minutes later, a couple who looked a little too out of place entered with a baby in a pram. Conveniently the table next to me was unoccupied so the parental types set their listening device in the floor near me and the woman held the "infant" so that the eyes recorded my actions. Bourgeoisie, probably graduated top of their class and recruited to join the "best and the brightest" in the service of their species.

I pulled out a notepad and wrote so that even in the dim light a camera could pick up what I put down. "The weather is unstable - two clouds passing by, expect electric storm to resolve drought situation, 40 deg C, will flood intersection with problems in need of smash repair." Let them sort that out at their crypto office.

While the customers queued up at the lobby, I saw my two companions wander in. We exchanged greetings and got down to business.

"In a few minutes, a table of young people will be seated behind you. In their drinks will be placed a radioactive solution designed to make them unaware of the ingredients added to their meals. We have installed collectors at their homes to separate their waste from the special ingredients and deliver the concentrated products to your clients."

"Thanks, Rick. That's what we like about you. You put family first." Jim slapped Harry on the shoulder. "Right, Harry?"

"Yeah, moments like these are what life's all about."

I handed the first copy of my latest book release to Harry. "Here, as promised, is a first edition for your library."

"And I assume you've signed it?"

I nodded. Harry would later use a mass spectrometer to analyze the message I'd hidden in my handwriting.

Family. Some people think that word covers a set of parents and their kids, or maybe three extended generations of blood relations. I know better. I'm a member of the team put in place to protect the whole family, our species in total. That's why I volunteered to be a variant, someone both inside and outside of our species. In times past, they turned us into eunuchs. These days, we give up more than our right to reproduce. We give up our chemical composition, our DNA, for something better - we become a crossbred species. Unique. Special. A fish out of water riding a solar-powered, helium-filled, rocket-accelerated bicycle.

I just finished reading a comedy called "Foucault's Pendulum." Eco's a good writer but I think he talks too much. His body's a result of early variant trials. We let him talk because we don't know if we'll learn how to improve ourselves.

Don't believe the rumours. We aren't perfect. We're designed for guardianship. No one in our organization plans the direction of the species. There is no puppet master pulling the strings. We're just here to provide a helping hand, a gentle nudge to keep the species on the path to explore other planetary bodies in the universe. We don't start or stop wars. We don't fix democratic elections. Think of us as ants who tend the aphid farm, fending off intrusions. We don't want to eat you. We depend on you and vice versa.

Of course, nothing I say will stop the conspiracy theorists from thinking there's more than meets the eye. Denying or verifying the existence of a secret society is a running joke between intellectuals. Don't become the punchline. Don't make me believe in class structures where members of a petite bourgeoisie would spend their idle time complaining about being unable to get anywhere because they're out of the loop.

I've got to go. One of my organic circuits is acting up again. I'm seeing echoes of my writing appear in my "third eye," making me believe what I'm saying, the first sign of the god complex the scientists on our team warned us about. Time to up the internal pump of my "humble pie" prescription while I wait for a replacement unit to arrive.