The Church of the Transhuman

by Joe Plus

  The Church of the Transhuman

  Joe Plus

  Part 1 of The Transhumanist series

  To Suzanne for driving out the crazy, Christian O’Kelly for opening the door and inviting the crazy back in again, and to the late, great, Stan Gooch - within whose dreams we walk

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author

  Copyright © 2017 by Joe Plus

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Chapter 1

  I was admiring my material inheritance in the hall mirror, mother’s blond bouffant wig with side curls, a vintage ruffle blouse of cream silk, and scarlet tartan culottes, all complimented by the caligae I had acquired from Legion VI Victrix, just before the reenactment of the Battle of Actium; Octavius verses Anthony and Cleopatra. My woolen socks had - indeed still have - a hole exposing each hallux. But that was fine, for I made sure each nail was polished in Chanel Rouge Rubis 677. Quite striking.

  It was time to leave. I donned my black velvet dining jacket and my great grandmother’s fascinator – a knitted square cloth tied at the neck. I flung the bone corset to the floor (too tight for my fulsome figure). As I reached the front door I remembered to say goodbye. I ascended the stairs as quickly as I could, not easy for a man of my age and condition, knocked – to give her fair warning; to allow her to gather her thoughts – squeezed through and approached her bed.

  There she lay in bright sunlight, head supported by six pillows, dressed in white cotton evening gown: trumpet silhouette: as is becoming a lady of her rank. I was a little taken aback at her eyes - wide open and alert, and her slack jaw; carrot like tongue suspended behind teeth: an adder ready to spring. I desired to know where her spirit wandered, on which unearthly places her feet trod. Wherever she was, she looked alarmed. I closed her mouth, kissed her forehead… and then I felt it, the goddess's message forming in my throat and nasal passages, like a swallowed fishbone's scratch. As with all true prophesies, this one would be thrust out in what some might consider a most inappropriate time and manner. For every spiritual gift there is a price, a thorn in the flesh, the evidence for its legitimacy. That’s prophesy for you – it must have impact.

  I opened the window and let out the flies. There seemed to be many more than usual, large bluebottles – a sure sign of demonic activity; no wonder the room reeked. More flies seemed to be entering than leaving, so with my familiars and a little insect spray, we cast the buggers out. Once the room was clear I heard her distinctive sigh, which Gideon had incorrectly, dare I say, cruelly, described as not unlike a deflating party balloon with the mouthpiece pulled and pinched. Her crisp skin was goosebumped, so I covered her in grand mama’s patchwork quilt, the one she had presented to me on my 13th birthday – aah, all those years back ago. I wished I could turn back time, be with her again. Perhaps, I thought, I should leave this life to be with her, wherever that was. No doubt she was with the Goddess, presenting her majesty with sweet offerings, hung up from a tree to drip in the pure, chill, pine resin air – I could practically taste it. Or perhaps she was binding a young maid to the altar on the white hill, to be drunk dry in the light of a full moon – such bliss. I looked at her again, at her tight cheeks, her open mouth, her wide eyes. No, she was not at peace, and this concerned me.

  I locked the front door behind me, remembering to turn on our security system: Kogel and Kock armed response – one can never be too careful. I made my way toward the city center.

  Along the Main Road, taxi after taxi hooted, offering cheap lifts into town. Having been robbed so many times by the kwela-kwela I was tempted to walk all the way. Aching feet overtook common sense and I hailed a Kombi, direct to central station. Five minutes later I entered the church hall where the congregation milled about. Table, chairs, and dinner service had been set, and a large cake in the shape of my bear – Ursus Spelaeus – sat prominently on the head. Pastor Jimmy Sandston greeted me. Said they all missed my mother. Told me my hair looked lovely.

  “Fuck you,” I said. The one thing I absolutely hate is irony.

  I went to the cake and examined it. I admit, it was magnificent and a good likeness. But my message couldn’t wait. ‘His foibles coming to the fore,’ they would say, ‘little devils making their demands,’ they would whisper. It had to come out. I had to do it. I took a big snort of phlegm and spat over the icing. The entire congregation turned. I heard a gasp, then silence; expectant; pregnant.

  Gideon Scot-Noah, pipe in hand, lips curled into that genial, smug grin of his, approached.

  “Anything important?” he said, “something good no doubt? You've made a bit of a curate's egg of the cake – Mrs. Wax won't be pleased.”

  “Couldn't be helped,” I said. “Now let me see.”

  I pushed my finger around the red and green mucus and saw the message clearly. I turned to Gideon and gave him the facts: “It’s bad Gideon, really bad. The goddess calls for volunteers, and by that she means you, me, and that filthy slut, Nelli Vos.”

  Chapter 2

  Log: 05-03-2044::07:25

  Field Trip: Batang Garing

  Role: Field Lead

  Name: Augusta Green

  Here I stand, sweetheart, atop a large tree trunk that fell just as we arrived. I saw it crash down as I walked toward it – a heavy thud and I can hear you now making a half-serious wisecrack about bad omens. But you know I don’t believe in omens, only that I must grab evolution by the collar, work hard, and harness that spark of our species - intelligence – the thing that’s got us thus far.

  It’s so bright, even with shades I squint, and I’m itching to go upriver like one of Bob's lab rats. If you scan along the bank of the Tanjung Redeb and follow the line of bright green on brown - dense bush on river mud – you see how it rises to a steep, grey cliff. Turn east and, with cockeye and zoom, you make out the Cape of Tanjung with its small boats and bright line of village after village that snake along. Farther out on the Celebes Sea, see that silver glint? That's the departing Sir Francis Galton, Bob's latest super yacht, soon to dip under the horizon … ah, there she goes. We won’t be seeing her again for some time at least, should all go according to plan.

  I have been directing the team, and my arms are loaded with a few things Angel Ardent provided for us. You know what she's like; CoT+ pamphlets, books, posters, and other bulky bits and bobs. It was hard for me to convince the girls back at the priory that although spreading the CoT+'s method to 404s is always a high priority, this is a scientific field trip, not a mission. I will bury this paraphernalia somewhere concealed and out of the way.

  Everything is dripping wet, and I can’t deny my thoughts are of the dry heat of Albuquerque. I have been soaked from the moment I got off the ship and, aside from a few minutes in our air-conditioned hotel, I have been soaked ever since. My curls have dropped into straight oily clumps and I am struggling to breath Sabah’s humid air. On top of that I have twice been up to my knees in mud, and bitten in places both exposed and covered. This, my sweet-pea, is the land of the blood-sucker, and in this particular neck of the woods there’s a species of leech and fly for every warm nook and moist cranny. I am wearing quick-dry pants and a quick-dry top – ha, ha, quick dry - anti-leech socks – useless since Bornean bugs crawl up them (that’s if they don’t fly up, which most seem to do). I have old maid’s underwear: thick, hot, and impenetrable shields of armor – so no bites and no infection down there (yet), only a heat rash. Evolution – what a comedian. Don’t worry love, we won’t be coming here for vacation any time soon – promise.

  This weather’s back-and-forth takes some getting used to - sweltering humidity
one minute, a thunderous downpour the next. That’s a tropical rainforest for you. I know, I know, I’m a crybaby. I can assure you that if this is what I must endure; for Adam I will endure it. I wish I were like that colleague of mine, see her? Trish Scott – you met Trish years ago during the LongLife launch party – there she goes, limber and tanned, a right old goat the way she skips up and over rock, tree root, and pothole. I still can’t believe I'm the team lead, can you?

  This is as far from the Angels as I can get, with its clinical trials, labs, change procedures, governance, SOPs, and manufacturing plants; validated, audited, and found (most of the time) fully compliant – you don’t need to understand it, except it’s the way we make sure our patients are protected; the end products prescribed according to spec; untainted and controlled. Out here, through all the apparent chaos, we will bring order, rules, and direction. Remember all those shopping lists I used to make when we went on vacation, all the different things I said we were going to do? It used to drive you crazy; little ripples on your introvert's need for peace and quiet. All you wanted to sit by the pool; meditate your way to perfection, or go hunt in the woods for bloodroot, goldenseal, and skullcap, not tramp with the crowd to some city center; sit in a noisy, upmarket restaurant. Well, it's the same scenario on this expedition, only I make lots of long, complicated lists, and I have to guide a lot of adults – each has her own ideas, his own needs - yet I have to herd them, make sure we stick to my schedule.

  I must tell you of a story I just read on the ship, a piece by a man named Tsuneo Yamaura called: Standing Naked in the Snow. Obviously, there’s no snow here, I am standing fully clothed in warm mud and damp leaves, but I feel that same exposure, that sense you have when you have done something wrong and know you are going to get caught. Why Bob chose me for the job god only… all these, clever, self-assured, esteemed men and women before me: Trish the prize-winning zoologist, Johanna and Natalie – brilliant and beautiful girls, graduates from the Max Plank Institute. Then I have twenty-two locals to port our gear, including: two foremen; three cooks; two translators; and Malcolm – you don't know Malcolm, our 'security expert' – all these men and women I must lead with confidence and quick wit, and I know you will disagree because you’re so sweet and kind, but these are essential qualities which I lack. While telling you all this the books and pamphlets feel heavier, are now damp, warped and spattered with dirt. I will jam them in the lockable cupboard in the hold of our river boat.

  There we go, all stored away. Now listen Anna, I am going to honest with you. You will see two sides of me on this trip. There’s ‘me’ the leader, the one who likes to get up and lead everyone on a song and dance - except I can’t sing and I can’t dance, not with these two left feet. That part of me is an act, a mask. a master of the performing arts. You will see the secret ‘me’, the one who hides in her tent under a sheet with her torch, checking her daughter's webcam to see how she's doing in that ice box; eyes shut, heart rate slow - one beat per minute - her small nose that creases and shifts with the little tongues of flame that poke and sear. After all these years, does she still dream of me, and when she does, does she remember me? Will she want to know me - when we meet again?

  I hear a song like a flute, from high in a tree. It’s a bird; at least I think it’s a bird. Malcolm points two fingers and mimes a shot. You won't like what Malcolm does. He served in the army (nothing wrong with that, I suppose), he’s a tracker, (also fine), and he's here to protect us (which I think is questionable). He also likes to hunt; shoot animals for sport. Now that’s right is it? And it’s not why we came here. We have indeed come to collect specimens, but only toward the advancement of our species, to fix the kind of problems you have. We are not here to engage in blood sport.

  Tomorrow we go upriver to where the banks become rocky and rise to 30 metre limestone cliffs topped with dense bush. At this point the river's rapids are so dangerous that we will leave our river boat and take a four-kilometer hike. Thereafter we can continue up the river in dinghies.

  Trish and I had a quick celebration with a few bottles of Tuak, a local drink, so we are smiling again. It’s such a relief to put aside my uniform of sash, cloak, and cornette. There’s no Angel Watchful and her product pipelines. I still have the tremors from our last project, and Trish complains of heart flutter. And the migraines, they are less frequent now but – my god they are spectacular – pulsating castle battlements, photosensitivity and fever. Nothing like what you have been through I am sure, but still…

  Log: 05-04-2044::14:11

  Field Trip: Batang Garing

  Role: Field Lead

  Name: Augusta Green

  It’s been quite a hike. The entire team has made it up the hilltop. I hope it doesn’t rain on the way down because I am already suffering from cracked, bleeding toes. Our Indonesian guide and translator, Mohammed, informed me that anyone who allows their feet to stay wet in these parts for a prolonged period will get ulcers, which Trish says is the result of a myriad of fungal and viral infections. We have still a long way to go before we see the back of Tanjung Redeb – what an untidy, festering mess it is – and in this day and age. Tonight we camp in the valley below, and tomorrow before the sun rises we depart toward the spot where the sightings were first recorded. There are so many blood-sucking bugs; even the butterflies make me nervous. With my Viking skin I am already covered in a red rash of itchy spots. Will take some getting used to, but don’t you worry, I have cream for it. Wish you were here :)

  Log: 05-04-2044::18:10

  Field Trip: Batang Garing

  Role: Field Lead

  Name: Augusta Green

  What a spectacular view. The clouded sky is bright red and it looks like thunder to the North. Then I noticed to the North a dark streak in the land, and I could hear the distant knock of a diesel engine – a strip mine. To the East I saw more patches – Loggers, according to Mohammed. Then strangely, or so it seemed to me at the time, Mohammad asked how we would sell our diamonds once we found them. I told him we were not after diamonds, only the riches of Sabah’s fauna. Then he said, Sabah is a big, beautiful diamond – everyone will find it, everyone will sell it. Sounds pithy – not sure what he meant by it. I told him that we in the CoT+ love Sabah as it is, that its riches are here, in the forests. He said, depressingly, that he agreed, and that when we find those diamonds, he will start his own palm oil processing plant: Like my uncle, he owns many plantations, and he works in the ministry. He will help me once I pay him.

  Chapter 3

  “We didn’t see our Moms that much, too busy with the cause, working for Dad. To me it didn’t mean that much, I mean, fuck ‘em, ha, ha. But Scrunch was always running after his Mom, right up her crack the whole day, and she would tell him, you know, ‘Hey, go look after your brother.’ He would be like, pissed, walk off and find a chair – he had these stiff legs, like Frankenstein.”

  “Frankenstein’s monster?”

  “Yeah the monster. Then he would sit, arms folded, watch me and sniff and say don’t you fuckin’ move, asshole. ‘Course I moved, we got into fights, I punched him, he stuck me with dad’s syringes. He did his best I guess, for a kid of that age. But you know, there’s a lot of competition in a poly household, at least there was in ours. So, yeah, eventually he started to use me as his personal assistant: dissect the neighbour’s puppies, steal some gasoline, start fires on the railroad tracks, whatever, until he got tired of that and decided to use me as his lab rat: fed me berries - nightshade, locked me in rooms with no food or water the whole day, injected into my arm whatever shit Dad left around – one time heroin, ha, ha. Yeah, Dad used to leave his lab door unlocked and there were always stuff in the garbage. I had some major hallucinations at around five, six years of age. Heavy shit man. Anyway, one day after swallowing some stuff Scrunch straight out tried to kill me. Cling-wrapped me – suffocation, but I had a bent tooth so I cut a hole. Then it was broken glass in my food… blood in my shit. You know it came to a head when he
trapped me in a treehouse he built from old lumber and whatever scrap he could get hold of. He put me inside, poured gasoline over it and then lit it. Fortunately it had started to rain heavily, so the flames died down and I managed to fall out the tree and go tell Mom. After that we were put in separate bedrooms, which was tough because it was still early days and Dad was struggling, financially speaking, so he had to give up his study. From then on Scrunch and I started to get on, sort of. But the anger’s still there. He blames my Mom for the death of his Mom, my mom recruited his into the order, though it was her own fucking free choice. Anyway, mine died in practically the same way and for the same fucking reason as his; screaming; eyeballs to the back of her head after swallowing some pills.”

  She lifted her eyes and said: “Mr. Blessing, I have to remind you of the rules, please control your language. Let’s go back to your dreams. You told me you get recurring dreams.”

  “Oh Jeez yeah. I can even tell you when they began. One night when I was about, I don’t know, eight or nine, I awoke and I could hear something in the room. It moved to the foot of my bed and I could feel it pad against my feet, slowly, the way a cat does, do you have a cat?”

  “No.”

  “O.K, well, the way a cat paws down and sits, you must have seen that before?”

  She continued writing, slightly faster now.

  “But I couldn’t see whatever it was. I tried to call out, but couldn’t move, fuck I was scared man.”