The Church of the Transhuman

by Joe Plus

  Role: Field Lead

  Name: Augusta Green

  No one seemed to take my story seriously – a bay cat, said Trish, there are very few sun bears left – loggers trap them for the Chinese market, and she switched the conversation to her night trip, which she said was wondrous. I detected a note of irony in her voice, and she added: wondrous for the first five minutes at least: so much life she had seen; so many songs she had heard, until Malcolm tried out his new gun. A sedate fish that glowed a faint blue moved close to the bank, and Malcolm took a shot at it. It turned belly-up and, like a floating orb, drifted downriver. Fucker’s luck, he said. Who knows whether it had a chance to regain consciousness. Minutes later Trish said she heard the most mournful yawp cut through the jungle’s wall of chirps, barks, and clips, and guessed it was the Dulit Frogmouth. Malcolm thought he could locate it, and he aimed high and fired three bursts. Something plopped down into the bush, and the fucker’s luck again, no one could find whatever it was until one of the dogs ran up and dropped at his master's feet the chewed up remains of the Frogmouth. Finally, Malcolm stunned a monkey, a species not even Trish could identify. It was running along the ground when zapped and so, fortunately I suppose, no death was caused by a fall. But alas, they checked its heartbeat – nothing. Two porters brought it back to the kitchen tent and left it on a pile of wood. While getting breakfast I noticed a grey heap plopped next to a pan of scrambled eggs, and I let out a shriek - I am embarrassed to say. I (of all people) recognized it. It was a Langur, and not any old kind, but a subspecies listed among the world’s most endangered: Miller's grizzled langur. It was thought to have been extinct, yet there it lay, its arms folded across its chest. After I calmed down, I said something along the lines of it being a wonderful discovery and told Malcolm, as he entered rather hungover I would say, that we might have had cause to be proud - to be able to announce to the world that Miller's grizzled langur flourished in a region previously thought uninhabited by it. Instead we can only say that there was at least one Miller's grizzled langur ‘collected’ in Sabah. Malcolm, lit up a cigar -yes, a cigar, laughed and said: Fucker’s luck. Of course the porters, all in awe of him, laughed along. He said that if there was one then there were probably a couple of hundred more – you know, like rats and cockroaches. I told Malcolm I wanted a word with him in private. Out of earshot of the team I told him that I was the one in charge, that I didn’t like his tone which I found disrespectful, mutinous even, and that I was making notes visible to Bob and Scrunch, and would he just behave and put out that cigar. He said ‘yes ma’am,’ pulled the front of his ridiculous leather fedora and sauntered off, the insolent…fucker.

  Anyway, we now have a specimen.

  Trish says she will find a way to rid us of his useless damn stun-gun, come what may. Thinking of which, I do wonder about my nightmare last night – I was conscious but paralyzed. I wouldn’t put it past him to have fooled around and tried his new toy on me.

  Log: 05-08-2044::11:02

  Field Trip: Batang Garing

  Role: Field Lead

  Name: Augusta Green

  First thing this morning I had the team set up the drone-sub for a dive. The water was rather murky, tests indicate all kinds of suspended solids – I suspect mining firms upriver, and I saw a few juvenile false gharial belly up and quite dead. I sent Trish to scour the bank, and she caught some spectacular frogs – at least two new species she thinks. Mohammed said not to touch them, you get very ill madam, sleep long and make many shit, but you can’t stop Trish, she picks up anything: gets bitten, poisoned, stung, etc. She had a wet bite from a tree snake years back, got up from her bed two days later and went back to work with no more than a headache. All those clinical trials have given her the resilience of a honey badger.

  Log: 05-09-2044::12:20

  Field Trip: Batang Garing

  Role: Field Lead

  Name: Augusta Green

  Meeting went well - mostly. I have Bob’s full support, even though he seemed irritated that there is still no sign of our quarry. I don’t know what they expected, that we just take a short trip up river and stumble upon a new species of hominid – one based upon folklore, anecdotes, and only one reasonably credible report, just like that? I made it clear that Malcolm’s behavior is affecting discipline and that I would prefer he return to CoT+. Bizarrely Bob refused, and told me that the sign of a true leader is a man ‘or woman, principal’s the same’ to stand his ground and: Counter irrationality with reasoned argument and fact. We needn’t accept everything we hear, but with humility we are to bring clarity; shine a warm light where there is darkness of confused thought; not mimic the world in its arrogance, its irrationality; the presumption of mere faith. Be strong and throw your weight around.

  I have always been a big girl, and that last remark about weight did not grant me the confidence intended.

  After the meeting I made a quick call for a 1 to 1 with Scrunch. I thought he, being so close to Bob, might be able to get through, but he – you know what he’s like - just didn’t get why I didn’t get it. Like Bob he insisted I stick with Malcolm, and used what I consider the most ridiculous, unsubstantiated reasons: because there are bandits in the area (so what? If they attack what can we do?) because Malcolm's an expert marksman, tracker and pathfinder (but we’re not hunting men, surely?) and because he knows the terrain better than anyone else (better than the porters? I think not). So, at great risk I said that Malcolm is subversive and an idiot. Protect us? Yes, he’s a good shot and has the charisma for the other men, but he undermines me, and puts at risk the project and the good name of the CoT+. Eventually the truth came out, and he said: Hey, I’m the messenger, you know dad, he has a soft spot for macho guys, calls Malcolm ‘son’, had him by his side every day for two months during the summer. Even called him over when he was having a bath or a shit to talk about weapons, backward natives, knives, hunting, combat, that kind of stuff.

  So Malcolm’s the newest court favorite, dammit.

  I don’t know what it is about this place; it’s so vast, and yet I feel enclosed in its density; the tall trees and tightly knotted bush under dappled light, each point of which reveals new treasure. I zoom and shift through eternal layer upon layer of foliage, feather, and fur. I hear in the distance the roar of a chain saw – is nothing off limits?

  I feel another migraine coming on: a pulse behind the eye and a quiver in my left hand. I will swallow a couple of LongLife pills and, once the symptoms recede, organize another dive; see what else I can spot.

  Log: 05-09-2044::14:42

  Field Trip: Batang Garing

  Role: Field Lead

  Name: Augusta Green

  Not much luck sweetheart, except the tiniest perchlets, and one solitary giant carp – remember those in Bob’s Japanese garden? Well, I watched the carp eat most of the perchlets, and anything else that moved. One of the porters dragged into the kitchen half a dozen dead snakes, each one with its head in small rattan basket – some kind of trap. Our two Dayak dogs look rather unhealthy in my opinion – exhausted, diseased probably, and the worst retrievers ever, having savaged every specimen. After supper Malcolm and Trish want me to help resolve some squabble or other. Malcolm’s in a big sulk because his gun disappeared, says he can’t remember where he left it. I asked aloud where it could be, and Trish smiled sweetly and eyed the river. Fucker’s luck, yes!

  Chapter 8

  Stage right, the long curled nose of Scrunch jibbed out through a gap in the curtains. His hunched shoulders and thin, horizontal neck pushed forward, counterbalanced by clasped hands stretched behind his back. His nose slewed back and forth and his eyes focused while his mind whirred and plotted.

  Not enough seats, he thought as he surveyed the throng. The gods were packed already and no doubt the steps would soon be filled. For some, standing room only. The strong odor of humanity wafted into his nose, and he gulped and restrained a retch. Can’t we fix that at least, he thought. Dispersed in clumps were the dis
tinctive heads of the Menders: refashioned, tattooed, and embedded with flashing electronics and gold and silver bling. He pulled a tin of deodorizing cream from his pocket, took a small finger-full and smeared it under his nose and down his philtrum. Scrunch had the olfactory system of a pregnant hound. The slightest odors caused him great discomfort, a reaction that had worsened with age.

  He spotted his brother John - in an expensive brown suit and chunky black shoes. Scrunch had ensured John arrive through the farthest entrance, led on a goose chase by a squad of the Reticulem; up three flights of stairs, down an elevator, along numerous corridors, until he was lumped together with a mosh pit of menders; a writhing chimera of serpent, goat, bird, and cat. John worked his way through the crowd to his seat on the stage. Potbellied and lacking muscular tone, he moved like a puppet with sagging strings, his free hand pushed smooth fingers through curly knots of receding black hair, his white skin beamed through his unshaven face. He kept his head down and eyes to the floor, as he always did whenever in the presence of his family. Scrunch grinned.

  Scrunch spotted John’s ex-wife Augusta in the choir, making her way to her seat with the other Angels. He noticed how she gave an eye-roll when she glanced at John, a one-sided micro-flash of upturned mouth and a glimpse of her grill of blocky white teeth.

  Augusta’s large frame and bouncing frizz of thick hair pushed from under cornette, her sash between shoulder and breast conspicuously raised. Pushing forward, head up, she reached her designated, one row behind and just to the right of Bob’s throne. She stared ahead and ignored her husband as he flopped down in front of her; arms folded; underbite thrust out.

  Scrunch chuckled.

  A huge station clock emerged from the darkness, floated and expanded until it struck 18:00 hours. A loud gong sounded across the auditorium and everyone who had not yet taken a seat, hastily did so. The band and choir commenced with the up-tempo number Get Your New Beginning. Scrunch ran onto the stage; a stick insect with an overbite. He waved his arms wildly, encouraging everyone to stand up and sing. The crowd cheered and clapped to the beat, and Scrunch was chuffed to hear the crowd chant: Scrunch, Scrunch, Scrunch.

  He had a strong voice, albeit an overpoweringly nasal one, and far too off-pitch for the fine choir. The crowd stood, large swathes lifted arms and swayed to-and-fro, eyes closed and faces skyward. The 2045ers were used to this sort of thing and were thus the most vocal. Even his sister-in-law, Augusta stood too, hopped from one foot to the next and pumped her fists with each beat. His brother John stayed seated and silent, seemingly unmoved by the turbulence around him. He knew John hated the forced smiles, the manufactured excitement, And he knew that John would imagine the swarm of eyes were on him; so self-conscious that he would not be able to participate in the orgasm of gratitude for LongLife pills, regarding it as immodest, distasteful, and undignified.

  Scrunch moved around the stage, his owl-like eyes bulged forward, his creased neck extended far beyond his tight collar. Lift your voices, hold hands and raise hell. He saw John laugh, so Scrunch singled him out, pointed and smiled, indicate he step up and join him on stage. John shook his head with a seriously fuck off expression. Scrunch laughed and waved - my baby brother, oh you joker you.

  The singing continued for two hours. The crowd was hyped, everyone (bar John) on foot, hoof, or paw. They would eat shit off the floor if it was offered to them. Scrunch checked the clock, it was time for the big three to give speeches - thank fuck.

  “And now ladies, gentlemen,” said Scrunch, “T H plussers, Menders, 2045ers, Techno-progressives, Jamesists, Extropians, and anyone else committed to bringing divinity to humanity - some of you know her as Anna Brill - I give you… StaaaarPluuuus.”

  The congregation roared, stamped, and waved banners, each of which bore the expression:

  2045 + BdMd + TH+ = CoT+

  A4 paper in hand, Anna scampered to the podium and Scrunch guided her to the lectern, her breath from heavy breathing induced in him a mouthful of stomach acid. Hand over mouth, Scrunch indicated the stool on which she could stand. Even with the stool, she was barely visible over the slanted top. She nodded her head until the cheer of the congregation died down to a whisper.

  “Yes, yes,” she said. “Just little me here behind the wheel. Can you see me?”

  There was light laughter and someone called out – we can hear you, can you see us? We love you.

  “Oh, I can see you all right,” she said, “but can you see the future, the future that is in you, that is in us all?”

  Chapter 9

  Log: 05-10-2044::07:45

  Field Trip: Batang Garing

  Role: Field Lead

  Name: Augusta Green

  A difficult night's sleep. The sky was clear and the moon was waxing gibbous, which means, my sweet-pea, that it’s close to being a full moon, but not quite there yet, currently around ninety percent lit. It was so bright inside my tent I could read without lamp. The cicada – my god – millions were drilling like crazy from all round me when, at two thirty, I heard through it all a crack of twigs. I saw from the corner of my eye the shadow against the tent wall. No mistake this time – definitely not a sun bear or bay cat. I have no doubt it was the same man as the one I saw a few nights back, and not the lean figure of Malcolm. There was the pungent fragrance: the strong smell of urine. I know that shadows can deceive, but there was something about the physique, the broad shoulders, the narrow hips and long, long arms. Whoever he was, he was clearly not from our team. I called out, and he stood still for a moment, turned and was gone. I warned the others. I hope we don’t get raided. But don’t you worry my darling, your Goosie will be careful, I promise.

  Log: 05-10-2044::20:20

  Field Trip: Batang Garing

  Role: Field Lead

  Name: Augusta Green

  This afternoon while walking along the bank, Trish and I noticed splashing in the water, something otter like. I sent down the sub and got some movement, although the images are unclear. Trish thinks she got a glimpse of a dugong like creature. Dugongs are marine animals, so I have my doubts that what we saw is a species of so docile a family. Whatever it was, we tracked its wake to the opposite bank. I will use the sub tomorrow morning; take a peek below the waterline. I don’t want to rush in and scare it off. Mustn’t get too excited, it’s probably a false gharial.

  Chapter 10

  John came from an apes’ cage of charlatans; cheats, thieves, liars and bullies, each with cocked hands full of coiled shit to throw, fingers and toes gripped on rungs to swing. He was the insulate chimp in the corner, masturbating listlessly, who scorns the give-and-take required to progress to immured silverback. It was not that he lacked in some of the requisite characteristics. He was somewhat superficial, somewhat deluded, somewhat narcissist, somewhat petulant - but there lay the problem, only somewhat to the dark side of the sociopathic spectrum, its flakey tang overpowered by benign, sociable attributes: somewhat insecure, somewhat honest, somewhat compassionate, somewhat remorseful, somewhat artless, and not in the least bit driven by his family members needs for wealth, for power, for control, and world domination. John was lazy, awkward, and, left if alone in a room with a jar full of cookies, he would eat the lot. He was the child in the attic, the definitely not a 10, rich junkie, side-stepped heir whose claim to fame would be a scurrilous headline in a red-top. The one trait that saved John from the life of complete soft-headed contempt and suckerdom was a well-cultivated, deep rhizome of immotile cynicism.

  John detested the way his family ran its business, especially these three:

  Scrunch, the sociopathic technician with a loathing of strong smells, moving self-consciously around the stage, arms aflap; legs almost entangled, most comfortable in white coat and lab, with a girl or two to assist. Up at 4 a.m., in bed by 12 p.m., he brought irreversible change to many in the corps. His work a refining fire, his assays a boat on the river Styx, dead angels floating in its wake.

  Augusta, his ex-wife, the woman
who had born him Adam, a terminally ill child with an incurable disease. Augusta - Goosie - had lost faith in John when she realized that he had neither the influence nor the intelligence to help save Adam. Then, in desperation (John assumed) Augusta had had an affair with Bob, his own father. This too failed to bring the dedication and funding she wanted – first and foremost Bob was interested in eternal life, not the eradication of rare diseases. Finally she joined the corps of Angels. Perhaps her suffering, my tribulations in the refiner’s temple, could bring about a cure for her son. This was that last thing she had said to before she had taken the vow of cornette, sash, and cloak, and committed her future to a life of suffering.

  Then there was dad, Uncle Bob to the rest of the world, a man who made his fortune selling the dream of eternal life, at first an online store of snake oil products and services, until he finally got his hands on the real thing. LongLife pills extended life, kept consumers alive like a Swiftian Strulbrug. His father sat to John’s left, jammed into his red-velvet and gold throne, pouring over it like two giant scoops of melting ice cream.

  I suppose, John thought, we should be grateful he’s still with us.

  Anna Brill, the leader of the 2045ers, a bobbing head of cough and peep, a fuzzy ball that bounced just above the lectern, tapped her mic. John switched screens so he could see her face. He zoomed in to her eyes.

  You can always tell a liar through her eyes. He detected nothing untoward. As with all the best crooks she was artless, naïve, intimate. Yet she peddles bullshit. She’s all sales no substance. Something overrode his misgivings, he had no negative feelings about her, and he spent the next while attempting to figure out why. Was it her crappy clothes? Was it her sunshiny smile?