The Church of the Transhuman

by Joe Plus

  No quick fix, he thought.

  He stared into the street and the thought crossed his mind that, as far back as he could remember, most non-residential streets of Los Angeles still managed to resemble the never-ending back-lot of a gigantic rundown supermarket. Everything slip-shop, half assed, and cheap.

  “We’re all lazy cunts,” he said.

  “Sir?” said his chauffer.

  “Hmm,” said Bob.

  They approached the back entrance of the new CoT+ HQ, and he detected the hazy image of Scrunch behind the glass doors of the lobby, a sliced and dissected composite of reflection and shadow.

  A young novice, smartly dressed in a white suit, stood outside next to a wheelchair. He shuffled uneasily, head bowed, one hand scratching a logo on his breast pocket, one that was new to Bob, a crosshair in a circle. No amount of dressing up could hide the scarification and tattoos of his modified body, and Bob noticed little lines of black ink and uncontrolled muscle mass writhe and bulge under the novice’s shirt collar like fish-bait. Bob sucked in loudly through clenched teeth. The bodyguard chuckled.

  “Just your thing sir,” he said.

  Bob grunted and sucked again and told the chauffer to get closer to the lobby. Before the chauffer had unbuckled, Bob threw open the door and hopped into the wheelchair. The novice greeted Bob with a cheery sing-song intonation.

  “Hello Uncle Bob,” he said.

  “Can you see in the dark?” said Bob.

  “Oh yes sir, infra-red and ultra violet, and aahm…”

  “Well then, find a deep, dark cave, crawl into it and stay there.”

  They young man, shoulder’s slouched, mouth agape, said: “Yes uncle Bob,” and Bob rolled into the lobby while Scrunch held open the door, eyes wide and teeth shiny white. The lobby was lined with young novices, all dressed in the same white suits.

  “We can’t have the guests terrified out of their wits,” said Bob, “find some good looking girls for Christ’s sake.”

  Scrunch waved and called two female novices.

  “Two girls coming up,” said Scrunch.

  “Good,” said Bob, “and what was that thing that greeted me? What is that logo? Why is he wearing a damn crosshair and not the official emblem?”

  “It’s the logo of our new security team, the Reticulum.”

  “What? Why have I never heard of this… whatyamacallitagain… Reticulum?”

  “You requested professional bodyguards. You asked me to organize it.”

  “Oh I did, did I?”

  Bob looked into Scrunch’s eyes. Scrunch was telling the truth, dammit!

  “Ah yes, I recall. Where are we meeting?” he said.

  “Third floor, the MarkPlus room.”

  “MarkPlus, PurePlus, Sky goddamn Plus,” muttered Bob.

  Scrunch led the way to the elevator. They entered and two white suited men joined them. They had the crosshair logo. They stood silently while the elevator ascended.

  “I did send you a note,” said Scrunch.

  “I do recall,” said Bob, eyeing the two guards. When? When? He rummaged through his memlogs, his subvoxes, the reports sent to him – nothing.

  Their suits suits and dark glasses provided a surprisingly sinister edge, undermined somewhat when on closer inspection Bob saw that one of the men had a tattoo on his forehead that read cockaliscious, while the other appeared to be an overweight and spotty teenager with no ears - both sliced off. Menders, he thought. He grumbled as they exited the elevator and moved down a corridor - how painful was his lower back, how swollen were his feet, and how fucking ugly were his guards.

  They reached the MarkPlus room. Scrunch went on his way with the guards to check up on the preparations for the evening, and Bob rolled into the room. A long table of white marble filled the space. Bob disliked marble, for its heterogeneity, lack of symmetry and unpredictability. In his own office he had a black slate top on his large desk, the homogeneity of which comforted him. He wheeled himself to the head and rapped his fingers on the cold stone.

  “Shall we start?” he said.

  In attendance were StarPlus, formerly known as Anna Brill, and Dr. Hieronymus Raacher. Anna, the head of the 2045ers, was a small, delicate woman with a short bob of gray hair and quick, bright eyes. She was of middle age and possessed an unexceptional sartorial sense. Today she was dressed in a floral top, blue jeans and brown sensible shoes. How she had got to the top of her org was a mystery to Bob. She dressed like an idiot and was so sunny and self-deprecating she appeared unthreatening; placid; feeble. But she had something he could not put his finger on, a powerful grip over those she got to know. Bob retuned her friendly smile. She had to have some real weakness, some flaw to exploit.

  In contrast Dr. Raacher had a penchant for expensive, designer clothes that seemed at odds with his donnish mind and thin frame. Known affectionately by friends and colleagues as Roach, he was an expert in both genetic engineering and medical chemistry. A friendly, relaxed demeanor ensured he had many connections within and without the industry, but his lack of interest in church doctrine occasionally brought him into conflict with uptight seniors. Roach was instrumental in developing LongLife, the success of which meant the church was financially sound. He had thus been granted unlimited funds and more or less a free hand in whatever direction his interests took him.

  Bob began the meeting with a “Roach, tell me about the goddam skin cream, I hear it’s a real fuck-up.”

  Roach had promised a new hit; a germ line gene therapy that targeted sagging skin and resurrected a youthful complexion that would be passed on to future generations. It was still in the pre-clinical phase and a large number of angels were putting their bodies on the line for the sake of the project. Then there was the news that three of the angels had suffered permanent blindness from an allergic reaction.

  “Oh, well,” said Roach, “some issues to be ironed out. Otherwise it works than expected.”

  Bob scratched his jaw and was about to comment when there was a knock at the door. It was PurePlus, head of the Menders, and as always he was late. Lean and tense, he moved cautiously on his hooves, like a doe on reconnaissance checking the field left, right, and center: for man, dog, and bird of prey. Always on the lookout for new souls to enhance with the latest fashion item, and always ready to run when Bob or Anna arrived to align interpretations of the three pillars: super-mind; super-body; and eternal life. He took his stool, specially designed to cater for his hocks and tail, and folded his long forearms on the table, his tattoos running to and fro, bursting like excited mice stuffed with firecrackers. PurePlus had his own agenda, and he soon steered the discussion toward his own pillar and the associated projects, of the CoTs envisaged super body.

  Though he tried not to show it, Bob was not particularly interested, and soon bored. Yes he wanted a better body, but he didn’t want another form - he wanted to transcend all of that. First and foremost he wanted eternal life, secondly an exponentially self-improving intelligence, and thirdly a super body, in that order.

  “You’ve got your priorities wrong,” he muttered.

  A young woman with a half meter long neck opened the door and in a rasping voice announced that the event was starting in half an hour.

  They all made their way out the room and out the building. They moved slowly through along a tree-lined gravel path, taking their time to reach the enormous domed hall, the new logo covered with a purple sheet until the appointed time. The revelation of new church logo and church name would be telecast live across the world that evening.

  A vast queue of white-suited members snaked around gravel pathways, parking lot, campus buildings, through security gates and out into the streets, backing up two hundred meters into another parking lot. Busloads of all three groups had arrived for the occasion. Bob surveyed the winding line of excitable members. There were Menders talking to 2045ers, TH+ers talking to 2045ers, but he could not detect talking between TH+ers and Menders.

  As they approached the aud
itorium, PurePlus’s clippity-clop hooves and mincing gait began to annoy Bob, so he increased speed, the wheels spitting back two parabolae of small stones. Anna and Roach trotted alongside to keep up.

  Reticulum staff led them past the cheering, clapping crowd, into the foyer and down a passage that took them to the back of the stage. Technicians checked equipment, members of the big band tuned their instruments and the angels filled seats in the choir. Bob took his place in front of the choir and Anna her seat next to his. Once seated they scanned the growing throng.

  “Where the fuck has PurePlus got too?” he said.

  Anna shrugged and puffed out her cheeks.

  “No idea. Late again I guess.”

  Indeed, PurePlus was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter 6

  Pet Palace, all big glass and grey-brown marble, stood on the corner of Beverly and Windsor Boulevard. Images of smug people with happy, healthy animals cluttered the shop front. A continuous stream of customers worked the doors, some with their dogs on the way in, most carrying something on the way out: a bag of litter, a new water bowl, a new pet.

  Angel Yoshida drove past three times before she was convinced that she could detect no one she knew, no one who would recognize her. But there was still a risk; someone might identify her in her angelic habit of cornette and sash. She put on her dark glasses and checked the mirror. God, it was like trying to hide a pig under a napkin.

  She had promised her niece that she would buy her a small pet, something warm and soft to stroke, something to care for. She checked one last time as she drove by. It was O.K. It seemed safe enough. Anyway, she was desperate. She slept badly at night and during the day it was work, work, work and she had to just grit her teeth and keep everything under control; all those trials; those hot, fiery tests. She had to keep the lid on while the pressure intensified.

  She parked the car in one of the bays, removed from the trunk one small birdcage and went inside. She checked the time – the world’s first CoT+ meeting was to start in a few hours and she still had quite a bit of preparation to do; a few tasks to complete. Angel Watchful had given her a long checklist of last minute issues to deal with – rearrange hotels for some senior executives, answer some queries from their PAs, and so on. Someone had to do it, someone with some real rank. She would do it all, earnestly and without complaint because she loved the Church and she loved her job. But she had something more urgent on her mind, something she had to quench and quell – else there would be dire consequences, not just for her but for others too. No, it would not do to delay.

  She passed the reptiles (she had tried those before – cold and slippery, yuck), passed the birds (too easy, too quick, but lovely and soft - she might take one), passed the puppies (too big, too dribbly, too noisy), passed the kittens (too scratchy), passed the fish (no, no, no), until she came to the rodents. They had a sharp nip, but were normally fine if you held them right.

  She looked into the guinea pig pen. There were about a dozen of them, young and lively – not too old, all milling about, noses twitching and whiskers shimmering. She picked one up and it froze; it shivered; It was afraid.

  Perfect, she thought, and decided against a bird. These sweet darlings would be sufficient.

  A shop assistant approached.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes thanks, I would like three.”

  “Three guinea pigs? Why of course, which would you like?”

  Yoshida pointed out the three she wanted, the most timid, most nervous – one chocolate brown, and the other two tortoiseshell.

  “Okey dokey, three little guinea pigs comin’ right up.”

  Yoshida bought a small cardboard travel box and some straw. She was advised on which fruit and vegetables to avoid and which were best for their development. She was excited; she struggled to contain her glee and smiled broadly.

  “One satisfied customer,” said the assistant as she processed the transaction.

  “You betchya,” said Yoshida.

  She raced back to the car, she hadn’t much time.

  She put the box on the passenger seat and opened its lid. She placed a black plastic garbage bag beneath it on the floor, coal-face mouth open wide, waiting to be filled. She directed the car to take her on a leisurely spin, away from busy areas and prying eyes, west along the boulevard; a circuitous route to HQ. She undressed, folded her habit neatly on the dashboard, and lay against the seat, masturbating slowly, pushing her fingers over and into herself until she felt some warmth, some increase in heart rate. Best to shade the glass, she thought, and the glass darkened.

  The guinea pigs were beginning to growl. She leaned over and picked out a tortoiseshell. It trembled in her hand and she stroked it gently. She looked around, the navigation was doing fine and the traffic was thin. She placed the animal between her legs, its small eyes peeped out, and she stroked its neck. She pushed it further against her crotch with each stroke, each time increasing the intensity. She spread her legs wider and pushed the animal in harder; its rear legs beginning to kick in time with its squeaking.

  “Don’t panic, don’t panic. There, that’s nice, that’s really, really good.”

  She felt herself moisten and her muscles contract. As the animal kicked a teeth-grinding rage came upon her. She pushed the animal harder into herself until it squeaked wildly and tried to escape. It leaped forward and she closed her knees on it hard and it yelped. She grabbed it by the scruff, held it up over the box, and the other two guinea pigs ran around the inside; seeking a place to hide.

  “Don’t panic pink heart, don’t run away,” she said, and while she stroked it with a trembling hand, she placed it again between her legs. She panted and her heart raced.

  “Yes, you just wiggle about down there, just make me all wet, you filthy little piggy-wig.”

  Again the guinea pig jumped and she grabbed it and smashed it down hard, again and again onto the dashboard.

  “I… said… don’t… run… away,” she said.

  She held it’s lifeless body aloft and, realizing it was dead, nonchalantly tossed it into the black garbage bag. She looked into the box at the quivering pair.

  “Hmm, this time you, little chocolate drop.” She picked him out and looked at the remaining tortoiseshell. “You, lucky munchkin, you go to my niece.”

  She hyperventilated as she lowered the squeaking animal between her legs. Again she pushed, the intensity of its kicking increased with the pressure of her hand on its head. It tried to escape and she raised it to her mouth and bit it hard on the neck. It wriggled and twisted.

  “Don’t panic, don’t try to escape,” she said between clenched teeth, but it nipped her between finger and thumb.

  “Ow, you little shit.”

  She bit it hard in its belly, tore out its innards and smeared them over her crotch, hands and face. She ate some of it, inspecting the guts like an old woman rummaging through her purse for raisins, stuffing each found morsel into her small mouth. When satisfied she threw the skin and bones into the black bag. She looked up into the mirror and saw her blood covered face, breast and crotch.

  “Two ticks, just two ticks,” she said, and with some wet wipes from her glove compartment cleaned herself and the car seat. She inspected her clothes and to her relief they were spotless.

  She wiped down her hands when Angel Watchful’s name appeared for an unscheduled call.

  “Dammit.”

  She imagined a green forest through which flowed a soothing brook. Her heart rate dropped, her face relaxed. She was at peace; radiant; mindful. She turned to answer the call.

  “Angel Yoshida. Good day Angel Watchful.”

  “Good day Angel Yoshida. Where are you? I expected you to be here by now.”

  “Busy with an inspection Angel Watchful.”

  “Inspection? What inspection?”

  “The one at Furry Forest Breeders, our guinea pig supplier.”

  “‘Ah yes, the one with the eight outstanding CAPAs. How are t
hey doing? Any more respiratory outbreaks?”

  “No, ventilation problem fixed, protocols re-visited and re-written, WPDs updated. Done and dusted, no new problems, all CAPAs closed.”

  “All of them? Well that’s a surprise – some good news from a supplier for a change.”

  Yoshida kept maintained her smile, both with the mouth and the eyes – and wondered how much longer she could keep it up. Yes, all CAPAs had been closed, but only through work arounds and cooking the books.

  “I have an additional task for you I am afraid,” said Angel Watchful, “some test subjects I need you to chaperone for the next few days.”

  An image of two children appeared, a boy and a girl, neither older than 6 or 7 years.

  “They are orphans, Julia and David, children of our brave sister, Angel Pleasant, who passed away unexpectantly. Do you think you can cope on top of everything else?”

  “Of course Angel Watchful. No problem. They look like such dears.”

  “Good. Then please prepare them for lab work. Go easy on them; they are quite fragile.”

  Yoshida looked at the two children who would be in her care for the next few days. The storm had passed and she was at peace. They had nothing to fear.

  She arrived at HQ and stepped out of the car; black bag in hand. It was a good 98 degrees The remaining guinea pig would just have to stay in the car. Would it survive the searing heat?

  If not I will have to buy another, she thought.

  The long winding queues of the three churches amazed her. She was so thrilled to be a part of it all. She threw the black back into a curbside bin and, head held high, made her way into the hall.

  Chapter 7

  Log: 05-07-2044::12:31

  Field Trip: Batang Garing