by Jack Yeovil
Olympia hated inefficiency and freaks of nature. It was not enough that meatfolks become machine, the Earth must be covered over with plastic and durium. Gaia, the sentimental personification of the living planet, must become a cyborg, in symbiosis with its machines. That was how machinekind should greet the millennium.
This current demolition was undertaken aesthetically. The cybermind could create art. It was empirically provable.
Robbie the Robotman and Hymie the Android knelt facing each other over an imaginary chessboard, indicating moves.
Their chess programs were so advanced no game could progress beyond three moves without one or the other conceding that stalemate was inevitable. Andromeda watched, amazonian body entirely covered by black cloth, ironically like a good Moslem girl. She laid her marble-white hand on Robbie’s shoulder, trying to follow the game with only her unaugmented meatmind.
Darkness gathered as the sun slipped below the horizon. Franken blinked and his eyes infrareddened. Bored, he accessed the time code. LED numbers gave him a time check, flashing alternates in successive population centres. A master reading told him his eyes had been functional for four years, two months, three weeks, six days, nine hours, ten minutes and forty-eight seconds. He watched seconds tick off towards the expiry of his five-year warranty, whereupon he would be advised to seek an upgrade. It was important that the cyber-mind remain state of the art.
That meant going back to BioDiv. Eventually the ’bots would have to resubmit to Zarathustra. There were independents—Simon Threadneedle, most obviously—but only Gen-Tech had the R&D capital. Between meat and metal was the barrier of money.
In the bus, Rosie the Maid and Talos the Bronze Giant made crackling love, wires stretched between plugboards, currents passing between them in rhythmic flow. Most ’bots eschewed meat sex. Their pleasure sensors were adapted to capabilities beyond human organs.
Olympia returned, a grin obvious under the black scarves that wrapped her head. Her crystal chest sparkled.
“At dawn, as the sun rises, we shall detonate.”
“That is nice, dear.”
She did a few steps, balancing perfectly. Kochineel inclined his sad clown’s face and watched her, active eyes intent. Penny-sized red highlights were painted on his china cheeks and blue-diamond tears etched under his eyes. He never spoke; his mouth was a cupid’s bow around a tiny inlet.
“Then, we should give thought to the Grand Canyon,” Olympia continued. “Concrete would be impractical, but fast-expanding synthetics are achieving spectacular results. At the current progress rate, the operation will be feasable within two annos. Our gift to the 21st century shall be to smooth over that nasty crack and restore proper featurelessness to the globe.”
“You still have blood on your face, dear. Organic matter from this morning.”
Olympia cringed disgust and wiped her forehead with the heel of her hand. Most of her skin was playtex but she had yet to replace her hands or face. Inside, as her superb balance demonstrated, she was all doodads and robo-bits.
Franken was furthest along the road to complete mechanisation. Only his brain and a few unaugmented bones were original to him. When it became possible to download the information that constituted consciousness into silicon, he would willingly abandon physical graymass. He scorned the Donovan Treatment: vulgar brains brooding in bottles had little in common with his improved, augmented, demonstrably superior form.
At the other extreme was Andromeda, whose uncannily mobile prosthetic hand barely qualified her for the Knock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots. When funds were amassed, she would have more alterations. Her human body, now in its brief peak of perfection, would customise superbly.
Andromeda walked over, graceful as a panther. She had taken a Pentathlon Gold for the Pan-Islamic Federation at the St Petersburg Olympics in ’92, but—a Greek Christian and a persecuted minority within the PIF—had defected. She had been through steroids and longevity programmes, and concluded cyberneticisation was the way to preserve and enhance herself against time.
Olympia watched Andromeda, her body language easy to read. Contempt, jealousy, fear, dislike. Olympia strangely retained much of her meatmind. Eventually, she believed, such irritants would cease to be a part of the cybermind.
Andromeda had sought out the Knock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots, crushing her own meathand to demonstrate commitment. Dr Threadneedle, contracted for the job, was enthusiastic about the possibilities of perfecting the woman. Her hand benefited, like Kochineel’s body, from developments in ceramics. It was imitation marble. She would ultimately be a goddess of living stone.
When remodelling was complete, Andromeda would be a better machine than Olympia. There was static between the cyberwomen. Now, Olympia could best Andromeda at any contest of skill or strength; but Andromeda’s mentality eventually would prevail. Her graymass was closer to the cybermind than Olympia’s part-silicon brain. Trained from infancy to treat meat as if it were durium, she was programmed as a Gold Medal winner.
Andromeda looked up at Canyon de Chelly.
“It is very beautiful,” she said. “In this light, almost magical.”
“Tchah,” Olympia spat. “You have too much meat in you, madame. Sentimental juices squirt from your heart, poisoning your mind…”
Olympia’s heart had been her first replacement. A necessity; the meat organ, was defective at birth. That had taught her not to trust nature, and put faith in the machine.
“Meat is weak,” she told Andromeda. “That damfool pilgrim this afternoon. He was pure meat. Look how he burst when squashed. Like a bug.”
Olympia was being unkind.
“I would wager your warranty does not cover the treatment you gave that Josephite,” Franken told her. “If Pinocchiocchio drove the bus over your chest, your components would fail as surely as the meat of that poor, strange man.”
Franken was perturbed by the way the Josephite had accepted his death. As if he were certain of a future.
“My cybermind is of a better quality, Franken. I would not find myself in such a situation. He died for no reason.”
Olympia had not acted dispassionately. In killing the man, she had demonstrated something about herself.
“Your brain is still graymass, still mostly meatmind.”
“An information storage unit,” she said, tapping her skull. “And a reasoning function. Few human brains have reasoning functions. That is why they are obsolete.”
“Why did that man defy us?” Andromeda asked. She disapproved of Olympia’s treatment of the Josephites. Only interested in the road ahead, she saw no point in the cruelty. Meatfolks were left behind; to Andromeda, that was harsh enough.
Olympia shrugged.
“The rational thing was to pay the toll,” Andromeda reasoned. “If they had paid, they would not have died. Why did they not follow that course?”
“Their experience was misleading,” Franken explained. “They believed us a common gangcult. The Maniax would have taken tithe and still killed several or all of them.”
“We were frustrated in our purpose,” Andromeda said, trying to follow the reasoning. “We set out to achieve money by extortion, money we need to pursue our own aims, but gained nothing from the exchange. In a logical sense, we lost.”
“We put meat in the ground,” Olympia snapped. “Do not underestimate that.”
“Frankly, I am still perplexed.”
“Catch up, meatdoll.”
Andromeda assumed a posture indicating emotional hurt.
Olympia did a triumphant pirouette. Kochineel might be sighing, Franken calculated.
“Metal must always master meat,” Olympia said, quoting the Knock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots’ slogan.
Andromeda said nothing but her hand flexed. Metal might always master meat, Franken mused, but perhaps marble would outlast metal. Nothing was settled.
II
8 June 1995
He had been at the wheel of the Edsel since midday services. Perhaps six hours
, with the joyous voices of the Brethren coming over the CB joined in song. Like all Josephites, W. Bond Wiggs abjured godless radio stations. Those that pretended to be religious were worst of all, polluting airwaves with so-called Christian Heavy Metal, ceaselessly soliciting donations. The Elect had no need of Golden Oldies or Soviet Sounds when they had hymns and a limited band communion.
“Follow the fold, and stra-aaa-ay no more…”
Elder Seth sat beside him, mouth set in a straight line. Another man in mirrorshades might be thought asleep, lulled by the lilting chorus, but Brother Wiggs knew the elder was eternally vigilant. No sin escaped his eye.
After the drive, the flat plastic flask strapped to Wiggs’s inner thigh was full and sloshing. Since his voluntary amendment, he ceased to notice the needs of his urino-genital arrangement. Many long-haul drivers without his special consideration adopted such contrivaptions to cut down on pit-stops.
When the Inner Council of the Brethren of Joseph gathered to plan the first convoy of resettlement, none had foreseen that the demands of nearly a hundred bladders would require more stoppages than equipment failure or skirmishes with hostiles. After two days on the remains of the Interstate up into Utah, that had proved the case. Discipline had to be imposed, especially on children. The theme of the Elder’s evening address had been Christian Continence.
Today was an improvement over the first spell on the road. The only major stoppage had been that business with the Knock ’Em Sock ’Em Robots. Only two lost.
The road was pitted and going was slow. Though it was the place of the mighty Edsel to lead the resettlers to the Promised Land, Wiggs had to keep the speedometer sacreligiously at thirty so as not to outpace the earth-movers. There was enough sandside traffic to ensure all roads were passable, but only to a Westmoreland tank or a dune buggy. It was years since federal government had maintained the Interstates. It wasn’t a question of money, but a matter of personnel: you couldn’t pay enough to make road men risk their lives out in the Des.
These were godless, violent times. The roads were aswarm with predators, intent upon the unwary. Elder Seth insisted the convoy travel without weapons, as a sign they were a threat to no man. Even Wiggs felt that was carrying the Josephite ideal a touch too far, but the will of the Elder was ferocious when he had right on his side.
The dead brown country crawled by as the faithful made their way towards predestined salvation.
At about seven in the evening, Elder Seth decreed the convoy should pull over and make camp for the night. Wiggs looked for a suitably sheltered area. Up ahead, stranded in the desert, was the Landsdale, an abandoned drive-in movie theatre.
A stretch billboard advertised Drew Barrymore in Curly Sue, a motion picture about a godless harlot to judge from the length of tan thigh on the poster. Before his conversion, Wiggs had consumed many such abominated movies. For him, abjuration had been painful. Even after the amendment to his lower region, he felt a stirring in his water at the sight of the sinful Drew’s shorts. She should be severely chastised for putting temptation in the path of a pious man.
Wiggs eased the wheel over and the Edsel cruised into the drive-in, ploughing through a barbed-wire tangle of tumble-weed. The convoy followed, crushing dried-up scrub into cracked asphalt. A small forest of hooked speaker poles, long stripped of their burdens, stood on the lot. Those that hadn’t been broken off altogether listed in all directions.
“Ideal, Brother Wiggs,” commented the Elder. “The Lord has put this place in our path for good reason.”
The convoy lined up, facing the bare scaffold where the screen had been hung, as if waiting for the show to start. This must have been a real passion pit. Wiggs could almost smell popcorn, hear piped muzak (Sove Sounds re-recorded by synthestrings), quiver at the moans and sighs from surrounding automobiles.
In sinning days, Wiggs would often-times share a back seat with a godless harlot who deported herself much as Devil’s Daughter Drew did in her poster. Soft flesh, warm folds, moist mouth. Hungry suckings and grindings. All such things were now abjured by Brother W. Bond Wiggs.
These days, his flesh was iron. He could not be tempted.
Elder Seth unbent from the Edsel and stretched like a cougar. He was a tall, thin man and gave the impression of wiry strength. Wiggs had seen him preach for five hours without so much as breaking sweat. Other evangelists went through shirts like an allergy-sufferer through a box of tissues. A man had to be strong in spirit and body to lead a party into unknown desert, certain that safety and salvation lay at the end of the road.
In the Brethren of Joseph, Wiggs had found strength to best his demons. He would sin no more. He pounded his thighs with fists, reminding himself of his abandoned sins, taking the opportunity to chastise his unworthy flesh.
The Brethren worked like a Marine platoon, fixing up lean-tos and shelters. Brother Bailie, who had seen combat in Mexico and the Central American Confederation, posted look-outs and inspected facilities. There was already a line by the rest rooms. Sisters held the hands of antsy children. More than a few youngers had had “accidents”, a backsliding against Christian Continence sure to earn many a chastisement.
He walked away from the Edsel towards the skeleton screen. It had to be a 100 feet long and 50 high. Sinful harlots would have filled the view, vast close-up lips swallowing an entire audience at a gulp. Twenty yards from the scaffolding, asphalt gave out to dunes. A low wall was overwhelmed by the sand. Wiggs put his foot up on the wall, pleasurably popping his cramped thigh, and hitched his black pantsleg to the knee. The outflow tube was taped down his leg to his ankle, where a plastic spigot faucet tied off the system.
Wiggs turned the faucet and emptied a day’s water into the sand. He felt not so much as a twinge from what wasn’t there. Before the amendment, he had worried about stories he had heard of amputees with phantom pains in missing limbs. He had no such experiences. He hadn’t put on weight, his voice hadn’t climbed an octave and the fire hadn’t gone out of his faith; he just didn’t feel like being a sinner any more. He had found salvation in the Brethren of Joseph.
A nearby wall, covered in pasted-over and torn-away posters for long-gone coming attractions, was a collage of faces, breasts and legs. Wiggs recognised godless harlots of the silver screen and video machine.
Before his amendment, Wiggs had held a special place in his lustful, sinful heart for Traci Lords. There were disembodied segments of Traci on the wall. And Sharon Stone’s libidinous eyes, Geena Davis’s mile-long limbs, Meryl Streep’s welcoming mouth, Voluptua Whoopee’s pillow chest. They did not call to him now.
He turned his back on sin and walked back to the ve-hickles, righteous pride rising. Tonight, if called, he would testify. He must abjure his former ways in public.
Carnal excess had been his abiding drive. Through adulterous fornication, he had lost two wives and three children. Directed by the white throb of his urges, his body was consumed by lust. No woman was safe with him. He would lie, wheedle, cheat, cajole and coerce. Nothing was too low if it enticed some godless hagwitch into his bed or automobile and loosed her from her drawers.
He shook his head with sorrow. Sister Maureen smiled at him and, mercifully, he felt no desire to fall upon her.
As a young man, he had been promising. In Macon County, Georgia, where his Daddy was Sheriff, he had been a Deputy in the early ’60s. Law enforcement offered opportunities for sin. Solitary female motorists were persuaded to give of their favours to avoid speeding tickets. The wives and daughters of men he locked in the hoosegow would often yield up virtue in the hope of expediting the release of loved ones. Best of all, many was the loose woman who found herself in an overnight cell when W. Bond Wiggs was sole turnkey and custodian. There was a separate section, round the back, for coloured prisoners. Many a night Deputy W. B. Wiggs would saunter there with a jug of cone liquor, and cut out some little ole gal for a taste of dark meat. He had cleaved to sinning as a fly to sticky paper and tasted the bitter gall of self-deg
radation.
As the Josephites prepared their simple evening meal in a bank of microwaves, Elder Seth stood a little apart and a little elevated, looking down on his flock. The dying sun flashed in his mirrorshades. He was still as a figurehead. The mere sight of the Elder gave Wiggs strength to continue remembering the dark days.
Finally, mere carnality was not enough to excite his depraved tastes, and Wiggs had availed himself of the handcuffs and nightsticks easily accessible in the lock-up. His pursuit of lechery cost him families and his job. His Daddy passed on in ’76, the day Spiro Agnew was elected. Sheriff Wiggs had been turning an uppity nigra away from the polling booth with a cattle-prod when an aneurism had burst in his graymass. The new sheriff had immediately kicked Wiggs off the force. In the unholy spirit of vengeance, Wiggs forced attentions on the Sheriffs daughters and found it necessary to leave his native county and state.
Now he fervently hoped Sheriff Pullinger could find it in his heart to forgive him for his undoubted sins. He wondered if it were not too late to make reparation.
By the earth-mover, Brother Kenneth and Sister Barbara held hands and read from The Path of Joseph. There was no carnality between the young Josephites, simply shared, untarnished faith. Brother Wiggs regretted his squandered youth.
For fifteen years, Wiggs had drifted and sinned. He picked up spells of work as a security Op, but most of his hours were consumed by the pursuit of harlots. He travelled from town to town and state to state, sinning all the way. He had been a notable imbiber of the Devil’s alcohol, a habitual drinker of Satan’s caffeine and a not-infrequent dependant on proscribed chemicals.
W Bond Wiggs must have stank of his sins. Stank to high heaven.
Trestle tables were erected and food laid out upon them. The Brethren gathered and took their places. Wiggs sat at the Elder’s right hand, as was fit. Elder Seth read the blessing and the Brethren ate in prayerful silence. Josephites abjured stimulants and spices, so the fare was plain and unflavoured, sustenance for the body not distraction for the palate. Wiggs happily spooned into his mouth a mush which contained all essentials for the prolongation of life but no harmful additives.