IGMS Issue 48

by IGMS

  Cult? I wasn't in any cult. Where I came from, the fanatics who demanded the right to have intergender sex were the cult -- a small but noisy minority who insisted they had the right to breed outside of society's accepted limits, regardless of the consequences. And I had no idea what he meant by "elated." That word must not have meant what it once did, because elated was the last word I'd use to describe my mood right now.

  I started typing again, frustrated with the futility of conversing this way. I prayed for strength, even as I searched for my voice.

  Surprisingly, my throat suddenly stopped hurting. It was as if God had said, Speak, my child.

  For the first time since being reawakened, I felt His loving hand on me.

  "The government had nothing to do with it," I said, feeling invigorated. "The priests finally understood what certain passages of scripture meant. John 13:34-35 says: "A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another, even as I have loved you. By this all men will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another."

  "Jesus traveled with men; he spread his gospel with men. We're meant to be together, just like women are meant to be together." I felt foolish explaining something so obvious to them, but they seemed to have lost the truth. "Cloning made it feasible. We could finally procreate without intergender sex, enabling us to embrace Jesus' commandments. It's mankind's ultimate destiny; the perfect hybrid of science and religion."

  The doctor stalked over, fiercely gripping the bars of my gurney. I don't know where the friendly doctor went, but he had vanished, replaced by an angry Mr. Hyde on the verge of losing control. Exasperation dripped from every gravel-covered word.

  "It was the government's way of manipulating the world's population, you moron. During Old Testament-times they used the Bible to tell people not to eat pork and shellfish because pork and shellfish carried germs that made them sick. God had nothing to do with it; it was the best way to influence people. This 'Biblical cloning' business was the same thing. By finding choice verses of scripture they could twist to their purposes, they could control population growth and -- "

  His sacrilege offended me. What's worse, he was wrong.

  "There aren't just one or two verses," I said. "The Bible is rife with scripture telling us how we are meant to live and to love." I grew increasingly animated. I couldn't help it; if you challenge my faith, you challenge who I am. "Romans 12:9-10. 'Let love be without hypocrisy. Abhor what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honor. . .' Don't you see? Preference to brotherly love. I could quote countless verses. I won't abandon my principles!"

  Romans 12:9-10 was my husband, Michael's, favorite verse. . . .cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in brotherly love. . . It was like he'd been preparing me for this moment from the very beginning. Michael stood with God now, one of His angels, and together they would guide me.

  "Oh yes," the doctor barked. "Please, quote as much scripture as possible. That never fails to fix things. In fact, have you got any verses about stupidity? Because we could use some help in that department, too. The government used scripture because this wasn't something they could legislate. It had to go deeper than that. Well apparently it went so deep in you that it skipped right past your brain."

  "What the doctor means to say is that we don't have the ability to do cloning anymore," Roy said, taking the doctor by the arm and creating a safe space between us. "Any technology that would have allowed us to manipulate human genes has long since been lost. Good old fashioned sex is all that remains. Men and women did that in the Bible, too, didn't they? I seem to recall a few verses that mention it."

  Dr. Jones gestured to me, though I'm not sure who he intended his comments for. "Of all the people to survive," he barked, "we had to end up with a damned elated Bible-thumper."

  The sort-of-Asian woman -- Mary Helen, I think her name was -- brought some sanity back to the med center.

  "I think we need to take a break," she said. "We're not going to solve anything with tensions running this high. Doctor Jones, go write yourself a prescription for a chill pill. Mr. Fallgood, you need to think about what we've told you. With all due respect to your religious principles and your interpretation of scripture, we need your help. Plain and simple: this may be the end of the human race we're talking about."

  I dreamt of Earth, hanging in space. The orb, the marble, the planet that gave us life. In my dream we were in the process of leaving it; far out, far away, but not so far that I couldn't still see the distinctive white whirl of clouds draped over the planet's surface.

  Except this wasn't possible. I'd been placed in cryo before Voyager lifted off. I should have no memories of leaving Earth. I should have no --

  Something slammed into the ship. It shook, and shook again, and I looked up and to the left, saw an iceberg -- a literal iceberg -- at the edge of my view. It loomed, pointy and slim at the top, rounded and immense at the bottom, floating against a background of star-freckled space. The ship rumbled again from another impact and when my vision cleared now there were dozens of icebergs, more than I could count; filling my field of view.

  There came another impact, another rumble, another --

  My eyes sprang open; my heart pounded inside my ribcage.

  Above me a dark silhouette in human form.

  "Michael?" I asked hopefully.

  "Wake up, Mr. Fallgood," the silhouette said.

  My head cleared. No, not Michael . . .

  I recognized the med-center even as the memory of the dream melted away to be replaced with the reality of someone shaking me; waking me.

  "Mr. Fallgood," the silhouette repeated. "You need to rise, brother. You need to follow me. Quickly."

  Random specks of light emanated from the medical apparatus; otherwise it was dark.

  "Why?" I said. "What's going on?"

  I wasn't going anywhere with someone I didn't know, and this was clearly no official visit.

  "I want to introduce you to some people, folks I think you'll like more than that science-worshipping doctor. He hated you from the moment he found out what you believed. I want you to meet some folks who'll treat you better."

  "There are Christians on this ship?"

  "We have to hide in order to worship. They won't let us do it openly."

  That was always the church's finest hour: when it met and worshipped and grew in secret, persecuted yet persevering. From 2nd century Rome to 20th century China, the church always thrived when giving strength to the oppressed.

  "Take me to them," I said.

  My mysterious benefactor lowered the rail on one side of the gurney and I sat up, swinging my legs over the edge. I scooted my rear forward, placed my feet on the floor, and promptly collapsed in an ignominious heap.

  "You're still weak from cryo," the silhouette said, bending to help me. It was then, with his face close, that I recognized him. The albino in the orange-sleeved jumpsuit; part of the crew who found me.

  "The electronic stimulations they run through you when you're in hibernation are barely enough to prevent total muscular atrophy. It'll be a while yet before you're walking on your own."

  He knelt beside me, pulling my arm around his neck and standing us both upright. "You think you can walk if you lean on me?" he asked.

  I wondered for a moment why The Lord hadn't provided me with the strength to walk, like He'd earlier given me the ability to speak. Then I realized He didn't need to; He'd provided me with the albino.

  Treasure all the gifts He gives you. That's what Michael always said.

  "Happily," I replied.

  The church group met in a large, half-lit room, which seemed appropriate, considering the oppression and abuse that my albino friend told me about. I had assumed ill-treatment based on the doctor's reaction when he heard me claim my Christianity, but the tales Oliver had told were heartrending: Christians treated as slaves, forced to do the most menial tasks while others liv
ed in relative comfort; told when and who to breed with, and severely punished if they did otherwise.

  I was trying my best to think about anything besides that last detail when Oliver led me into a room full of men and women with smudge-covered faces, all wearing the same style jumpsuit: brown body and legs, faded orange sleeves; everything frayed and worn.

  The entire room reeked to the point of being overwhelming, a vivid contrast to the sterile med-center. Oliver helped me take a seat in a plastic folding chair facing the rest of the room, while everyone else faced me in rows, some in plastic chairs, everyone else cross-legged on the floor.

  "Brothers and sisters in Christ," began Oliver. "Let us bow our heads together in prayer.

  "Heavenly Father, we gather tonight in Your Son's holy name to thank You for the miracle of Jeremy Fallgood; for allowing him to survive The Wrecking so that he could bring everyone on the Voyager the truth of your Word, so that we may stand up to the Brahis and Satis above us, and aid the Chucks beneath us."

  "Amen!" rang every voice in the room.

  It was encouraging to see so many Christians united in prayer. Oliver had mentioned this was one congregation among several, but that they couldn't meet in larger groups for fear of being shut down. Yet right now everyone in the room exuded a palpable excitement. I looked around at a shadowy pool of smiling faces, about thirty of them, packed tightly. I even spotted a familiar face: the short-haired, long-chinned, lisping woman who'd found me. She smiled and nodded when she saw I'd recognized her -- an awkward smile given the extreme pronouncement of her chin and lower lip.

  She and my albino friend weren't the only ones in the room with physical abnormalities. Truth be told, the "normal" looking ones were the exception.

  Oliver made settling gestures with his hands. "Okay, I know you're eager to hear from the walking miracle himself, so let's get to it. Tonight I am pleased to introduce to you the man who survived 800 years of cryo-sleep under the most miraculous circumstances. The man who told those Brahis that he was a Christian and wasn't going to play their games. The man who told that Sati doctor what he could do with his computerized gene-pool program. I give you . . . Jeremy Fallgood!"

  The room burst into applause and shouts of "Halleluiah."

  I, however, was at a complete loss. Oliver hadn't said anything about me speaking. He said he would introduce me to some folks, that's all. I was no public speaker. That was . . .

  that . . .

  That was Michael's forte.

  No.

  No, damn it. I rejected that. It had only been one day, but I was tired of feeling sorry for myself. Done with it. Michael was gone and I had to learn to live with it.

  "Um . . . Thank you . . . Oliver. For that introduction." I leaned forward in my chair, determined to do this well. "And thanks to all of you . . . brothers and sisters. You're too kind." I paused, nodding to the crowd, still trying to think what to say. "I don't mind sharing my faith with you. In fact, I'm happy to, though I don't know how much encouragement I can offer."

  Cries of "No," and "Testify, brother," arose. I tamped it down.

  "Seriously. There's so much I don't understand. I didn't understand half of what Oliver said when he introduced me. Why are you oppressed? Who or what are Brahis and Satis? For that matter, how did I end up here? Does Dr. Jones have any idea where . . ."

  A chorus of boos sprang up at the mention of the doctor's name. Clearly not a popular figure.

  "The Brahith and Thatith are --" began the long-chinned woman. She cut herself short, then tried again, "You have to imagine thingth here ath a thort of cathte thythtem, like a --"

  "I'm sorry," I said. "Can you . . .?" I felt guilty interrupting but I literally couldn't understand her. "Imagine what like a what?"

  A younger woman with short-cropped blonde hair -- I realized everyone in the room, male and female, had short-cropped hair -- rose from the floor.

  "Melba said, you have to think of it like a caste system," she began. "It's gonged off to call it that publically, but that's what it is. The Brahis are the politicians; they make all the rules, all the decisions. The Satis are mainly scientists and engineers -- the next step down -- except that half the time they're the ones telling the Brahis what to tell us to do."

  "Yeah," called out a voice from the floor, "Like flush their shit out an airlock when the plumbing breaks down."

  The young woman ignored the interruption. "We're Madris: the worker bees, the ones who get the nasty jobs the Brahis and Satis don't want to sully their hands with. And the Chucks -- well, they're halfway to the other side. They don't do much of anything because they're such a sickly lot. The caste distinctions are set according to our personal F-value --" she paused, adding bitterly, "-- as if our F-value correlated to our value as human beings."

  I raised a hand, stopping her. "That's the second time I've heard that term. What's it mean?"

  "It's an indicator of how much genetic overlap a person has," said Oliver. "If your parents were brother and sister, you'd have an F-value of .25, because exactly 25% of your genetic material is duplicated. The Chucks' F-values are even higher than that. They're a pretty diseased, malformed lot." He indicated the pointy-chinned woman. "Melba there -- she's a .248. Barely qualifies as a Madri."

  The young blonde woman broke back in. "And none of the other castes will even touch a Chuck. If they get cared for at all, it's by us. It's not one of our official duties, but if we don't do it, no one will."

  "Because we're Christians!" called yet another voice from the back of the room. "We don't abandon people."

  "Amen!" shouted the rest of the room.

  "Amen," I repeated, my head bobbing with approval. Now I understood why the people in the med-center got so excited about bedding me with half the people on the ship. The undertone of desperation they showed in that first conversation. But I also found myself respecting these dirty, jumpsuit-wearing men and women so much more. They may have been persecuted -- the absolute dregs of Voyager's society -- but they were the ones who were true to Christ's message. They understood His purpose when He opposed the Pharisees and associated with lepers and prostitutes and tax collectors.

  I rose unsteadily to my feet. It required every ounce of strength I had, but I felt inspired by these true Christians. By their commitment to caring for the downtrodden even when they were downtrodden themselves.

  "Brothers and sisters," I said, raising both hands. "Blessings on you all. As it says in Romans 12:9-10: 'Let love be without hypocrisy. Abhor what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in brotherly love.' You have embodied the essence of that verse better than anyone I've ever met, demonstrating true Christian love. That Bible verse was my husband's favorite verse, and every time it came up he always said --"

  "Wait a minute," said the young blonde woman. "Did you say 'husband?' But you're a man."

  "Of course," I answered. "Married for eighteen years. We actually got the lottery results about Voyager on our eighteenth anniversary --"

  I had to stop there; I suddenly couldn't speak or breathe.

  I hadn't thought about it until that very second, but the moment those words slipped through my lips, they came boomeranging back, hitting me between the eyes like the rock David had slung at Goliath. And with that painful blow, memories flooded my mind, overwhelming me, shutting out the room, the group, and everything else. That day -- our anniversary -- it should have been the happiest of my life.

  But on our eighteenth anniversary, on that very day, Michael had come into our bedroom and woken me. At first I thought he wanted anniversary sex, but he'd kissed me so gently, so tenderly, telling me I'd won the lottery for Voyager. He held my face between his hands, and smiled, and cried.

  And somehow he convinced me to get on that ship without him.

  Had he really been that convincing? Or had I merely allowed it? Because I wanted to live . . .

  A tidal wave of tears welled behind my eyes.

  No. I would never do that to
Michael; would I? Abandon him like that?

  Then why did I feel the weight of . . . of . . .? Guilt? Pressing on my chest like a tombstone?

  Because I had been afraid. Because I had let him convince me.

  I had held the guilt at bay as long as I possibly could, and I had found my limit. Right here. I blinked, trying to hold back the tears.

  Yet even as I sought to get control of my eyes, my ears heard something they could barely comprehend, much less believe. A cacophony of voices, protesting, disparaging; reviling. It was the med-center all over again, except this time I had context. This time their outrage was Biblical. "Abomination!" "Sinner!" "False prophet!"

  The kick in the teeth was the repeated shouts of "Leviticus 18:22!" That verse was shouted loudly and often, spreading like a living organism through the room, an organism that seemed to grow darker and more dangerous by the moment. "Leviticus 18:22!"

  Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with woman kind: it is an abomination.

  I collapsed into my chair, my legs weakened by the verbal assault. Yet even then, I protested. "But that's the Old Testament," I cried. "It was replaced by His New Commandments. Men are supposed to love men, and women are supposed to love women. 1 John 4:21. 'For the one who does not love his brother, whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen.'"

  Even as I spoke, I made eye contact with Oliver, whose ultra-pale-blue eyes flashed with recognition at the verse I quoted.

  "Wait a minute!" he said, calling for quiet, for calm. "Everybody wait a damn minute!"

  Order was restored, albeit marginally. He turned his attention to me. "Are you saying that verse endorses homosexuality?"

  The room burst out again, but Oliver wouldn't let the voices run rampant.

  "Everybody SHUT UP!" he bellowed, his eyes looking at me, demanding answers.

  "I'm saying it reveals His ultimate plan for us. The marriage of science and religion -- cloning. We could finally love each other the way God intended."