The Church of the Transhuman
Page 6
“Seriously?” he asked again.
The audience fell into an awed hush.
“Where did it all go wrong? Where?” he said.
Artemis and the Neanderthal fused together into an obese, sickly modern man in a smart business suit.
“One hundred thousand years ago, evolution hit a high note. At some point, our main ancestor came as near to perfection as it was going to get, namely Homo Sapiens. And then, wiped from history.”
There were murmurs from the audience.
John yawned: Here we go, dad’s gonna grind that ax.
“That’s right, sixty thousand years ago there was a mass extinction of the greatest species ever to have walked the Earth. Homo Sapiens left Africa and settled in the Middle East and Europe, and blew it. Homo Sapiens interbred with the red-haired ones, the hairy ones, the idiots from the mountains, the trolls under the bridge, the cannibals from the woods, the illiterate, dumb, cultureless morons. They sold their birthright for a mess of pottage.”
Bob paused to catch his breath.
“We are a disaster ladies and gentleman, and it is this lethal combination of incompatible species that is the root cause of all of the world’s problems. Neanderthals, never curious, never bored – there traits are manifold, consumers, never creators, drifting along with history’s current.”
A long tailed bird, a bundle of small sticks in its tail, flew overhead. John felt the beat of its wings, heard its chirp.
“This bird is the hybrid of two birds of paradise. It’s trying to build a nest, watch.”
The bird picked up a stick and placed it in its wing feathers, flew for a few meters, then stopped and pulled the stick from its wing by its beak, flew a further few meters and stopped again and lodged the stick into its wing feathers, flew a few meters more and stopped again, and so on.
“It cannot build its nest, for it is utterly confused and instinctively torn. It cannot progress; it cannot live its life to the full. What life anyway? According to the DNA of which parent species?”
Bob lumbered forward to the edge of the stage, his long red hair flopped over his eyes.
“Look at me, look at my physique; barrel-chested, short limbed, red hair, a strongly sloping forehead and thick brow. I am hairy all over my body, and my second toes are longer than my big toes,” he said. He smiled and, as if having sucked on Helium said, “at least I don’t have a caveman’s cute voice.” The audience laughed.
“This is what drives me. I feel your pain,” he pointed to a Mender with the head of a unicorn, another with four arms and three eyes, and continued, “I mean it, I really do feel your pain, more than anyone. This is why I have so many programs of research in archeology, zoology, biology, and genetic engineering. This is why we search for new species, to find phrases better suited to our needs, to find natural solutions to our myriad problems. And how are we rewarded for our efforts, how are our praises sung? We are mocked, we are loathed, we are excluded, and we are shunned. The wise men and women of so-called mainstream science call us cryptozoologists. They equate us with cranks and crackpots, the homeopathics, the Chiropractics, the Heaven’s Gates and Order of the Solar Temples. They say we show all the marks of a cult, that we con our members and achieve nothing. How ironic. What does the Royal Society achieve nowadays? Talk, talk and more talk. Yes my friends, we don’t just talk, we do.”
A cheer from the audience Yesss!!!
“Like LifeLong pills, and our amazing product pipeline. We have many enemies, corporations jealous of our successes. We are a threat.”
A slide appeared with the iconography of The Royal Society, the Max Plank Institute, and the biggest 5 pharmaceutical companies.
The audience booed and hissed. Some called out: Oh yeaaahhh.
John shook his head and muttered: “What is this, a Christmas pantomime?”
His watched his father pant, wipe drops of sweat from his brow: “Like evolution, conventional medicine and conventional science has no strategy, no master plan, no goal. It’s reactive – we are proactive. We have the strategy, we have the plan, we have the goal, and best of all, we have the means to create a perfect human: a Transhuman. So, does the world need us? I mean, seriously? What a question.”
From the crowd began the chant of Bob’s name. Scrunch stepped up and the band began to play Purify my cryofrozen soul.
“Aging is a choice ladies and gentlemen. Choose the CoT+. Choose a new species, choose eternal life.”
Chapter 15
Log: 05-12-2044::16:44
Field Trip: Batang Garing
Role: Field Lead
Name: Augusta Green
Trish speculates that it was the handiwork of a Siamese Crocodile, numerous in these parts. They prefer smaller game, which they tear apart by biting and spinning wildly. In shallow waters their tails beat against the riverbed as they whirl, hence the silicate cloud. After examining the flesh and DNA she said that she and Natalie determined that the prey was river dolphin, a young calf perhaps. Without thinking I said I wished it had been our aquatic ape. Trish said, Oh my sweet Goosie, and they both smiled and said nothing. Since then they have been giving each other knowing winks when I’m around. God, I feel so foolish, but that’s our mission, so call me a speculative crypto-nut, but the water hominid’s the real reason why we’re here. This isn’t a joke.
Log: 05-12-2044::18:13
Field Trip: Batang Garing
Role: Field Lead
Name: Augusta Green
HQ has informed everyone that YouGene labs have found a new cure for baldness, this time without the side effect of anal leakage, or whatever it was. I plan to make a toast; to YouGene labs, for bringing us so close to the ideal envisaged by our predecessors, Joe Plus, Maxime Triple-Plus, and Chuck++. Frankly I feel that some of the board members misunderstand the main goal of the church. I am sure Uncle Bob is as annoyed as we are at the profligate waste. But what can you do when you are steering as big a ship as the CoT+?
It’s been two weeks since my last period. Ovulation coincided with the full moon, and it feels odd. It is not just me: Trish, Natalie, and Johanna, we all have the same rhythm. We had a fruit punch and Doritos to celebrate.
Log: 05-13-2044::06:10
Field Trip: Batang Garing
Role: Field Lead
Name: Augusta Green
Last night I pitched my tent late and had a real problem getting into bed. First of all, after taking off my wet clothes, I noticed half a dozen swollen tiger leeches around my crutch, the little shits. Once I had got them off – and it took ages; the sun had dropped and I had to hold my torch in my mouth - I noticed that I had not closed the tent door properly, and the inside was streaming with ants. The thing is, when I tried to shoo them off - and I am not exaggerating - some of them exploded, blasting into a stinking, burning goo. I zipped up the door, sprayed the tent with a local brand of insect repellent (which I suspect does not comply with international health and safety standards) put on my dry kit, crawled into my bag, covered myself with a net, and unsuccessfully suppressed yelps from the bites. I then suffered a coughing fit from the spray fumes. Malcolm cryed with laughter; glad he enjoyed himself. I imagined him wrapped up in his canvass and netting, tied high up between two trees like a giant spider’s prey, shuddering. Wish he’d choke, although I admit it probably looked funny. I expect you would have laughed too – you have such a wicked sense of humor. It took ages to fall asleep, thanks to a few strays biting for all their worth – and the noise: cicada, frogs, and god knows what; a fucking awful racket.
Then I was woken at one point. My mystery man paid me another visit, only this time he reached into the tent and touched my right foot. The fragrance was so unexpected, so strong, musky, yet strangely pleasant. I told Trish and she suggested I stay with her tonight. I told her not to worry – we’re Angels: tough as nails. Should I be more concerned? It’s unexpected perhaps, but I feel no fear, no desire to flee or hide.
I awoke an hour ago to the sound of rushing
water. The sun had not yet risen, but in the faint light I could see that the river’s edge had come up close. I will pitch my tent higher up the bank next time. Must have been a storm upriver.
I am covered in bites. Trish pulled two fat leeches from between my shoulder blades. A bit intimate; she cleaned up the blood too. Don’t worry, she’s not my type.
Chapter 16
John needed a stiff drink. No such luck, he thought, as he was directed by security to the after party, the intention of which was to give those privileged enough to have been invited to suck up; to congratulate Bob for a wonderfully inspiring speech; to rub shoulders with the chief scientists; to make acquaintance with some of the senior angels and whoever else. No doubt Augusta would be there, doing her best to rub shoulders with the high and mighty, get someone, anyone, to help find a cure for her hopeless cause.
On John’s mind was his father’s offer to accept a transfer to manage the African HQ in CapeTown. John could barely manage his own life, let alone an HQ in another continent.
All those trips up and down, Nairobi, Entebbe, and all those fucked up places, he thought, it’s dad’s way of getting me off his back. Thanks but no thanks.
In fact it was Scrunch who had alluded to the last remark: Just accept the job for a couple o’ years, it’ll be fun. It’s lawless down there, you can do what you want - just the place to get some experience, get your life on track, get out of everyone’s hair.
John moved along corridor after corridor, followed the stream of young women and men, all likewise determined to get that one wise word, one approving glance. At the entrance to a well-furnished reception room, John found himself next to Augusta. They were both barred from entering by two Reticulum guards.
“Tell them who you are,” said Augusta.
John lifted his head and said: “I’m John Blessing.”
“Huh?” said one guard.
“John Blessing, I’m a Blessing goddammit, let me in for Christ’s sake.”
“Let us in,” said Augusta, “us, there’s two of us here, remember?”
John caught a glimpse of Scrunch.
“Hey Scrunch, what’s this?” he said, gesturing to the guards.
Scrunch cupped his ears and shook his head.
“Can’t hear you.”
Bob turned, champagne flute in hand, caught sight of Augusta and said: “let her in you dolts, and the idiot next to her,” and the guards hastily made way. Bob turned to Scrunch: “Your new guards, Rectum or whatever they’re called, are morons.”
“Well,” said Scrunch as John and Augusta approached, “they do exactly what they are instructed to do.”
Augusta stepped up to Bob for a hug. Bob smiled and, with his arm around her waist, placed his hand onto her butt.
“Come here my sweet Goosie.”
They stared into each other’s eyes for a good half-minute. John and Scrunch gave each other a look. John coughed and Scrunch folded his arms and exposed long, white teeth.
Hah, his gums are receding, thought John.
“Congratulations on a wonderful sermon,” said Augusta.
“Were it not for the input of such a great team,” said Bob, “and the support of this wonderful family, the merger would never have been possible.”
“Liked the bit on the Neanderthals,” said John, “but could you please give me their incapacity for boredom, I really need that.”
“My boy, it’s high time you changed that ironic tone. You need to take an interest in the family business. Think of your future. Stand up straight, stop slouching and pull your shoulders out, hold your head up like it's suspended from a wire. My god you have a child in the cryo-cube, what’s wrong with you boy?”
John felt the eyes of his brother and his ex, and a puce-red shame forced him to bite hard, and with a great deal of resentment, straighten his shoulders, lift up his head. Scrunch covered his mouth, and Augusta sucked in air and rolled her eyes.
The moment was broken by a call from a novice.
“Uncle Bob, Uncle Bob.”
The novice whispered his message. Bob turned to leave and, like a buoy in a rough sea, Anna Brill bobbed up beside Scrunch. Before she could open her mouth Scrunch introduced her to Augusta.
“I loved your speech,” said Augusta. “It must be so exciting to be working in your field.”
“My field?”
“Yes, neuroplasticity of the brain?”
“I am interested in the mind as well as the brain.”
“Oh, I assumed they were one and the same field.”
“No, not at all. The mind is immaterial.”
Augusta smiled: “O.K.”
“Not everything,” said Anna, “is material. All creatures have consciousness; an awake soul.”
“I don't know,” said Augusta, “I have never seen the need for a soul. Besides, I do not believe one can test for that. Is it possible to disprove its existence? The work of Susan Blackmore…”
“…her work was inconclusive. She assumed a soul would have a mass, something measurable. Well the uncarnate is no longer a popular topic of conversation…”
No? though John.
“…but that does not make it any less true, in the same way that not being able to test for a subconscious disproves its existence. You do believe in the subconscious do you not?”
“To be honest I have not really thought about it but…”
“But you accept that a part of you, a non-conscious part of you, whirrs away in that brain of yours, calculating, plotting, intuiting and so on?”
“Yes, but can I not think of a soul as who I am? Am I not a single entity?”
And so the conversation continued, where Anna revealed her thoughts on the incorporeal, the tripartite view of mind, body and spirit, an outlook far removed from the official doctrine of the newly formed CoT+.
John stood close to the bar and drank one glass of orange juice after another, spiking each with some chemical sustenance. After an hour he had had enough, reached over to Augusta and made a snide remark about airy-fairy hippy notions and the all the new Mender freaks. Augusta gave him a dressing down, told him that he was too cynical, too spiteful, too pessimistic – and it was why she had left him. If he wanted to see Adam, see change in his life, indeed with anything in this life, he should start with himself; get a new attitude, get a new heart.
John looked briefly into his own heart, and it was then that John decided for change, and to accept his father’s offer to manage the African HQ.
Chapter 17
Log: 05-14-2044::14:22
Field Trip: Batang Garing
Role: Field Lead
Name: Augusta Green
Walking over the granite rock we came across a hearth of stones and ash, recently made, according to Herman. I rummaged in the pile and found bits of fish bone, not much else. Herman proceeded to tell us the strangest story, that there is a tribe of women in these parts, a very aggressive bunch, with the power to control the weather and sea. If you are a female from another tribe and one of them so much as looks at you, you become forever a willing slave to their male god. If you are a man, they will eat you – every speck down to the bone. A stupid tale, but may explain why it was so difficult to find the necessary manpower to lug all our stuff up to this point.
Chapter 18
John awoke to the sound of whimpering. He looked at the clock; it was 10:35 a.m. He had spent the night watching a cavewoman paint walls. He had dared not move or make a sound; he did not want her to leave.
He dragged himself upright. It was hot; the air-conditioning was off. He dripped with sweat.
“Where’s the fucking help?” he muttered.
He threw off her duvet; he had wet his bed. He pulled the sheets off and rummaged in his walk-in cupboard for dry underwear. The bell rang and he went to the intercom and saw three domestic workers waiting outside: the cook, the cleaner, and the gardener.
“Shit.”
They were due from eight o’clock. He had slept right t
hrough. No doubt the neighbor - a CoT+ official placed close by to keep a watchful eye - had again invited them to wait at her place.
John pressed the intercom button and the front door opened and the three domestics ambled in. The cook made her way into the kitchen, breathed an audible sigh at the stack of unwashed crockery and cutlery. The cleaner tripped over something – the crack of empty bottles – cursed, and the gardener whistled his way through the house and into the back garden. Soon the air was ripped by the dishwasher, vacuum cleaner, and lawnmower. John breathed a fuck you, went back into his bedroom, closed the door and opened the windows.
He flopped back into bed and lit up a joint. He pulled a drag and filled his lungs with the smoke and held it. He picked up his bottle of Armagnac from the floor; he had left the cork off so most of it had poured into the rug. He took a large swig and pushed out a huge fart.
“Nice one,” he said, and pointed his finger at the door, “that was for you guys.”
John fell asleep, and dreamed Adam was being bathed by his mother; crying so loudly that John hammered on the bathroom door: “Stop hurting him you fucking bitch.”
“She’s crying because he has a rash, his skin is raw.”
“No way. I just cleaned him up – pissed himself.” he said.
He heard Augusta whisper and Adam’s whimpers die down.
“Angels – sadistic, masochistic bastards,” he muttered.
He awoke to a loud bang, and saw a wolf lying at the foot of his bed. He sat up and it ran back down the cave passage. He blinked his eyes and the passage faded into the light of the wall.