The Church of the Transhuman

by Joe Plus

  “Oh right, dead people,” said John.

  “Well, you seem to know something,” she said lifting her chin, a smile forming with the ironic tone.

  He noticed that she wasn't as old as he had first thought, at most in her early forties he guessed.

  “No, truth be told, I know little about it.”

  “You don’t say? Tell me, why the visit?” she said.

  John explained his predicament concerning his Porsche - but skipped the part about the gang of youths – too much like chickenheartedness.

  “So, while on my way to the station, I heard your lovely singing and decided to investigate, take a look,” he said.

  The Wax's, Nelli, Gideon and Jimmy expressed pleasure at this account.

  “Nothing,” said Jimmy with dramatic pause, “is without cause. Everything happens for a purpose.”

  John attempted to smile, but failed miserably and rustled up a sneer.

  “There is, we believe,” continued Jimmy, “a higher plan for all of us.”

  “Such reassurance is something I could do with,” said John.

  “Well then, you have come to the right place,” said Nelli broadening the smile of her wide mouth, “because we have Gideon, Jimmy, and Tele to assist in any quest you might have.” She whispered, giving a wink of the eye, “Telemann Scunditz, very clever, from a solid Cape town family.” She leaned closer, John could feel her warm breath on his ear, “Tele is on another spiritual sphere you know – yet so afflicted with mortal burdens.”

  “Oh yeah?” said John, raising a brow.

  “Autism, Tourette's, and possessed by a familiar who is the soul of his mother. Life has been difficult for him, but what a medium he is. Spirituality and suffering always go glove-in-hand.”

  “There’s a payoff for everything I guess,” he said.

  “Yes, always,” she said.

  Tele shouted something about flesh wounds, stamped, and coughed. It was then John that John was relieved to see that the tartan kilt was a pair of culottes.

  Tele was staring blankly into an empty teacup.

  “He might be reading leaves,” said Nelli. “Wait for it…he is so spontaneous you know.”

  Everyone turned their gaze. Jimmy craned his long neck forward, hands clasped under his chin with thumbs rotating nervously. Mr. Wax leaned heavily on his knobkerrie, and Gideon rested against the wall of the library. John took a sip of coffee and struggled to avoid a loud gulp. Tele's eyes widened and he looked upward.

  “Whose cup is that?” said Jimmy.

  “This is Gideon's cup, I believe,” said Tele.

  “It is,” said Gideon, his tone relaxed.

  “Gideon, I see you will be a mentor for the next while. It is essential you do not keep any secrets from your charge and stay in touch with him.”

  “A him again? Boring,” said Gideon.

  “This is serious Gideon.” Tele put down the cup and saucer, “just follow the advice please, it was strongly phrased.”

  John peered into the cup and saw chopped black tea leaves in a splash of green water. He was particularly prone to seeing distinct images in the amorphous, random shapes of clouds and shadows, yet in these leaves he saw nothing.

  He looked at his watch; it was after 10 p.m.

  “I must go,” he said, “must get a taxi before it's too late.”

  “Oh, where do you live?” said Jimmy.

  “Newlands,” said John.

  “I'll take you,” said Gideon with his hands in his pockets searching for his keys, “I live in Rondebosch.”

  Mrs. Wax locked herself in the loo, and John saw her sensible underwear drop upon her sensible black shoes. He quickly accepted Gideon’s offer, said his goodbyes, and promised he would return - though he had no such intention.

  Chapter 23

  Subvox: 05-17-2044::01:13

  Location: Sabah, Kinabatangan River, Maliau Basin

  Name: Augusta Green

  The moon’s bright and the insects chirp-chirp and God knows what else that is, with its whoop and cackle and pop-pop-pop. I say, fuck you, not loudly, but quietly, a whisper – then not a whisper but loudly, fuck you, louder, really fucking loudly I say, fuck you bright moon, fuck you insect queen. I place my makeup mirror on my left side, on my useless, lumpy mat. I placed it so I can see the entrance, the door zipped and buttoned up secure and tight as an angel.

  I smell that soft, sour odor that entrances, and pulls me along into a lush dream world of flower, fruit, bird, and fawn. I hear a splash, and in the heat big drops run along my flabby back and between my legs. My heart knock-knocks and I want to shout, help, help, but I hold back, close my eyes, wait. The tent door zipper rips and I flick a glance at the mirror and see blue-grey flash and wink. Behind me, his breath warm and sweet billows up my legs. In my mirror I see his chest; broad, strong pectorals, hard, dark nipples. He lifts and pushes me into a crouching position and the sweat pours between my buttocks, over shoulder blades and drip from my breasts. His hand slips down between my legs and he eases in long fingers. He is moving two, no three, fingers in and out - thick, long, stiff. I pour and he pushes up to the knuckles. Heart beats and blood whooshes in my ears and I swell as he moves in and out and I feel the plunge of his hand, god help me. I shake and he inserts thumb into my ass and gently squeezes thumb against forefinger. He reaches under my left breast and rubs my nipple, my sweat dripping into his hand. He moves his hand to my mouth and I, I suck his fingers hard and I bite. The fingers are long and soft and sweet. I cry out from the push of his fist. This is a rape. No, this is not a rape. This is because of John, because John’s a fuck. I say, not loudly, but quietly, fuck you John. Then not quietly, but loudly, fuck you moon, fuck you insects, fuck you leaches, fuck you ants. He pushes his fist deep, in and out, around and about. Fuck me, I say, fuck me harder. He withdraws and I feel his penis and his hips against my buttocks. He fucks hard and I beat back. I push hard and I start to tremble and he comes and we stop, his cock throbs inside. He moves away and I feel hot come pour out. I stay still, pant and sigh, face down and ass up. In the mirror I see him, his face lit like a firefly. He is so beautiful. I want him again and again.

  Chapter 24

  John stepped into the passenger seat of Gideon's Citroën DS, a dilapidated brown re-spray with headlight wipers and a white roof. Tele flopped into the back.

  “I love these old timers,” said John, “but is it still legal to drive?”

  “Yes, I had it refurbished,” said Gideon. “Under the hood it’s fully satellite controlled, zero emissions, and so on. The body, chasse, interior fittings, are original. But I must watch out, there is a good informal market for Citroëns, which is the only way to get hold of spare parts. It’s a real pain, getting back to your car and finding something missing, then running off to buy it back from a guy in Paarden Eilend. Which reminds me, I must get hold of some replacement hubcaps for the left front wheel.”

  John laughed: “Yes, well, you should get a Porsche then. The police will find it for you - once they have filled it with bullets. At least you can move on to a new car.”

  “Well,” said Tele, “why would the police bother to find it? Classic it may be, but it’s hardly a desirable classic, is it?”

  Gideon winced briefly and said: “It’s associated with a more retiring set,” and he started the engine.

  Tele began to bounce gently on the back seat. John clipped his belt and Tele folded his arms and continued to bounce without a seatbelt.

  They drove toward the Company Gardens and turned second left, passed the Town Hall and Green Market square. The car rocked to the rhythm of Tele's bouncing.

  “We will go via Main Road,” said Gideon.

  “Fine by me,” said John, although he would have preferred the safer route via Devil's Peak.

  In Salt River the road was potholed and rutted, and John was glad for the Citroën’s pneumatic suspension. Although there were numerous cheap apartment blocks along the way, the scatter of shuttered shops,
junk food establishments, and fuel stations, gave John a strange sense of emptiness, the feeling he got when he found himself in an industrial zone.

  They drove on, past Observatory then to Mowbray. Outside a terrace of shuttered shops, four boys worked the wheels of a Toyota Corolla. They stopped and, faces emotionless and cold, eyed the creaking Citroën while it gamboled past.

  “They look like Pirates,” said Tele. He opened the window and shouted: “Jou ma se poes.”

  One boy gave the finger, another laughed.

  “Good gracious, careful now,” said Gideon, “we don't want too much attention this time of night.”

  They took the turnoff to Marley flats, a flavorless red-brick complex. Squeezed next to the complex was an old, unkempt two-story Cape Dutch house surrounded by a high, plastered wall.

  They stopped and Tele coughed, farted loudly, then sang:

  “Farewell and adieu to you, ghastly Ladies,

  Farewell and adieu to you, ladies so plain;

  For we're under orders for to sail for ancient pastures,

  And we regret in a short time to return to you again.”

  He reached over to shake hands. “Good to have met you John,” he said. He stepped out and slammed the door as hard as he could. Gideon and John watched him hobble over to the gate of the house while fumbling in his pockets.

  “He always misplaces his keys, so let's give him a minute or two,” said Gideon.

  They watched him rummage for a while, until he looked up to an open, burglar-barred second floor window and called out: “Mamaaaa… mamaaaa….”

  Two minutes passed and Gideon exhaled noisily and started the engine. Tele ambled back to the car.

  “Here we go again,” he said. “He often loses his keys and ends up having to stay with someone for the night, usually me I’m afraid.” Then he whispered, “he gets lonely.”

  Gideon lowered a window.

  “Can't find my keys. Maybe I dropped them in your car.”

  “I don't see them,” said Gideon.

  “Maybe I left them in the Church,” said Tele cheerfully.

  “Well, I can call if you want. See whether anybody’s still there, perhaps Jimmy is locking up,” said Gideon.

  “Knocking up more likely, he and that wench are always at it,” said Tele. “Dial ‘em up. Coitus-interrupt the rutters.”

  Gideon made the call and Tele bobbed up and down on the back seat.

  “No response.” said Gideon.

  “Even my mother is not responding,” said Tele, “you saw me try to call her? I think she must be out somewhere.”

  “Having tea with the goddess?” said Gideon.

  “Something like that,” said Tele.

  Gideon sighed, smiled and invited a beaming Tele to stay the night on his couch.

  “You know,” said Tele, “this is meant to be. Tonight is an important night,” and he pointed at John.

  They took off in the direction of Newlands, entered Rondebosch, stopped at the lights and Tele tapped John on the shoulder.

  “Come in for a wee dram. It's on me.”

  “That's another bottle you owe me,” said Gideon.

  “I am a bit tired but thanks, next time,” said John.

  “Just a wee dram,” said Tele, narrowing his eyes and slurring his words. “Go on, or are you really so afraid of two queer old bachelors?”

  “You are very welcome to stop by,” said Gideon.

  It's Friday and tomorrow's a lie in, thought John. His home was a few hundred yards walking distance, not that he liked to walk along the Main Road at this time of night. But a wee dram? That was too tempting.

  “O.K. guys, just a wee dram.”

  The lights turned green and Gideon veered right into Grotto Road.

  Chapter 25

  Log: 05-18-2044::16:35

  Field Trip: Batang Garing

  Role: Field Lead

  Name: Augusta Green

  After yesterday’s horrors I was afraid we would have to cancel the whole undertaking, but Scrunch seemed delighted, and encouraged me to go after whatever it was we saw. He showed zero interest in the porter, or in the possibility that he may have been killed by a militia group (although I can scarcely believe they would have killed him this way.) He said that it’s too late to back out now, and told me to steam on. I laid out the risks, death to the crew and the negative publicity it could garner, be Scrunch wasn’t having any of it. No sign of Bob, which I find odd, especially since this trip is really his baby.

  Moving along the river was tiresome, water murky and slow. Then, at around 11:30, we spotted a cave – quite a large one – gaping out midway up a rocky cliff, around two and a half meters above the water line. Malcolm, bored and needing to ‘stretch his legs,’ made his way up. He found what looks like a carved stairway that winds upward to the cave, and he disappeared inside for an awfully long time. We moored and went up, and found that he was taking a dump in the far corner. Then we noticed evidence of a hearth – charred animal bones, plant seeds, and - this will excite Bob - evidence of red ochre usage. We took many images and samples and, satisfied that the place had not been occupied for quite some time, continued our way up the river by raft. Only half a kilometer farther we discovered a clearing on the left bank, an open space cut into the forest, covered with tumuli. We disembarked and took a closer look. Most of the mounds were overgrown, but some looked freshly built, a single oval mound of dry earth covered in a top layer of stones, each roughly hewn into spheroids of around five kilograms. We took the chance to examine one mound with ground penetrating radar and it became immediately clear that this was a burial ground, each tumulus containing a corpse. But there was something odd about the remains. Our software told us that the skeletal forms were of unusual proportions. They had exceptionally long arms and long, thick fingers, long legs, and feet with very long, thick toes. I thought immediately of our man in the water yesterday.

  We had a meeting lasting over an hour, with Scrunch, our CoT+ primatologist Doctor Ned Butler and Mark Thorp, VP of the department of cryptozoology. Again, Bob was not present, and more surprised at the outspoken row between Mark and Ned over our apparent lack of respect to sacred ground. Ned’s point was that we must be careful and treat gravesites as sacrosanct. Mark argued that we should not allow superstition to get in the way of progress. Scrunch overruled the debate and declared the mission of the CoT+ was to bring purity to all mankind, and that the end justified the means, even if that brought some imagined loss of dignity to a few primitives fellows from the bush. He insisted we act without delay.

  “Nothing’s sacred Goosie,’ he said, ‘so dig ‘em up,” and that was the end of the discussion.

  Well, we will dig ‘em up, but to retain credibility we must ensure the project is well controlled. Trish and I sat down with Natalie and Johanna and worked on the plan. Within hours we had our work breakdown, quality plan, risk analysis and so on. Digging would commence the next morning, once all formal procedures had been followed, in correct sequence and to the letter. All risks, especially risks of contamination had been evaluated and dealt with. I chose to begin with a recently dug grave where the earth was soft and not yet overgrown. I selected some of the more intelligent members of the crew, appointing the interns Natalie and Johanna to take photographs and keep meticulous records throughout. I would personally give any necessary training to my porters; how to sieve for fragments, how to spot clues for ochre, flowers and herbs, jewelry, fabric, and so on. It would take several hours and I was going to give training over supper. Trish and Herman generated a map of the terrain while the crew set up camp, unpacked shovels, trowels, sifters, a mini floatation device with dryer (the latter essential in the tropics), two weighing scales, measuring tape, a theodolite, some dust pans, numerous brushes of various sizes and an old coal-scoop. I like to cover my digs with tarpaulin and wear a sealed suit, or else at the very minimum wear a mask and gloves to reduce contamination. With such an astonishing find we have to be so careful. With
our critics, we in the crypto world have to work so much harder. Controlled is the key word. Control, control and more control, that is what I tell all the team members all the time. If it is not documented, if it’s not reviewed and approved by the authorized persons, then it is a good as anecdote and conjecture, and can and should be discounted. Do it properly and we have no case to answer to our enemies and our auditors. Anyway, off we go. We start tomorrow 6:00 a.m. sharp.

  Log: 05-19-2044::09:26

  Field Trip: Batang Garing

  Role: Field Lead

  Name: Augusta Green

  I am shaking, I am seething with anger. I was running around like a headless chicken, making preparations, organizing my team, when I saw Malcolm digging like a weasel for a rabbit on the very grave I had selected. A team of farm horses could not restrain him. No matter how much I tried to stop him – I hit him over the head with a rotten branch - he, in complete disregard of the plan, of governance, of contamination, basic fucking principles of hygiene, dug away with his bare hands until he managed to resurrect a whole stinking foot. And my god, it was webbed. That bastard, does he ever listen? He’s a wild, feral dog. On top of that we can hear all kinds of whoops and calls from the forest, and one of the porters has been hit with an arrow – Trish is tending to him but it doesn’t look good. I can’t get hold of management, everyone’s too busy, but this is an emergency.

  Chapter 26

  The car snaked its way up the steep incline of Grotto Road and shortly came before a white walled, three-story house with a sharp black slate roof. The house was surrounded by a high brick wall topped with wrought iron twisted into a repeating pattern of spirals, all carefully wrapped in a haze of razor wire. The automatic gates swung inwards lethargically. The car maneuvered into the driveway whilst another noisy rolling-gate furled, revealing a well-lit garage. The gates closed after them; a clanking of metal and locks and the thundering wind-down of the steel roll.