“Field trip,” the boy whispered, and he touched the clown with his finger.
A nun laid her hand on his shoulder and gently led him away to join his peers.
“Field trip indeed, my son,” she said.
The boy smiled at her proudly.
“The wrong kind,” the nun added as the two passed through the doors.
Aligned at the rail of the lookout deck, the children could gaze at a thousand feet of sheer drop down to the crater’s bottomless pit, dark and tenebrous. Far in the distance, perched on the ridge across from the Pilgrim Center, the imposing cathedral-like edifice of the New Vatikan remained veiled in thick tendrils of fog, its battery of tall spires poking at the rainclouds dragging their fat underbellies high above.
Early sprinkles had already started to fall on the orphans’ faces as they recited in unison a passage from the Sacred Book of Job, the Sufferer of God:
“‘Have you seen my armory of hail, which I have reserved for the time of trouble, for the day of battle and war?,’ asketh the Lord.”
“Indeed,” Sister Deborah said. She smiled, pleased. An armory of hail, a secret place where the great I Am hides His fiery stones, ready to hurl them at an estranged, un-repented race should the gentle whisper of His Spirit fall on deaf ears. Yes, even God eventually runs out of mercy, Sister Deborah thought, as she watched the two rows of orphans peering into the bottomless pit underneath their feet.
She then squinted at the heavens still concealed behind the darkened canopy. The wind had intensified its whining. By now, the rainclouds were drifting low over the city, and the thunders’ echo was coming in shorter and shorter intervals. Flashes of lightning zigzagged through the shutter of clouds.
She would have to bring the children back inside, she thought, and try to keep them busy until the storm passed. Reciting the Sacred Genealogy at the beginning of the Gospel of Saint Matthew was always a good place to start; it kept their young minds occupied, their memories alert, and preserved the sacred record in their hearts.
Abraham begot Isaac, Isaac begot Jacob, Jacob begot Judah and his brothers, Judah begot Perez, and so one and so forth. All those men who knew no shame, begetting each other century after century, pathetic hostages of an unbroken chain of lust and procreation. Of course, women took a part in that, too, but in his wisdom, Saint Matthew omitted most of their names until the long list reached its very end with Mary—the Eternal Virgin, the Bearer of God’s son. One holy woman, her chaste womb untouched by sin, shining at the end of a long roster of men—unclean, four-legged creatures ruled by vile cravings that would make the beasts of the wild blush.
Yes, the Sacred Genealogy would do. Sister Deborah smiled again, pleased that the Devil couldn’t throw anything her way, whether a morning storm or doubts about the Holy Writ, nothing she couldn’t handle with a prayer on the go for the Lord’s guidance, the one Man who never failed to deliver on His promises.
You only have to knock gently, she reminded herself, and the door will be opened unto you.
9
Father Elano entered the Pope’s office without knocking.
The massive door barely left a rustle as it closed behind him. He treaded toward the far wall of the long, spectral chamber with vaulted ceiling and a string of arched stained-glass windows to one side. Hardwood floors and unadorned walls added to the overall austere feel, the Papal study possessing the simplicity of a monastery cell rather than the pomp of a throne room. Way in the distance, a large crucifix towered on the back wall. Two candles burned agonizingly slow on either side of the Savior’s pierced wrists, casting their flickering glow over a man hunkered down at a large oak desk. The scent of melting wax lingered in the air, blending in with the sour tang of polished wood. The desk was littered with writing utensils, stacks upon stacks of papers, and thick, dusty tomes. The man was engrossed in writing, the quill in his hand scraping the paper mercilessly.
Angry ribbons of rain slammed the windows facing the crater outside, their muffled crash covering the drumming of Elano’s boots on the wooden floors. When he finally heard the approaching footsteps, Inocentis III bolted from his chair, dashed around the cluttered desk, and raced to meet Elano. The Pontiff was a man past his prime by many years, and yet, whatever fountain of eternal youth he’d found, it helped him conceal his age graciously. A pair of intense dark eyes never still for more than a second, an upright posture, and a lively step made him look decades younger than what anyone would’ve dared to guess. He was decked in a plain grey cassock with no cape; he wore a simple, milk-white skullcap. A crucifix hung at the end of a golden chain around his neck.
Elano cast a furtive glance at the Pope’s feet. A pair of high-heeled cowboy boots poked their silver toecaps from under the brim of his robe. Snakeskin and wine-colored, the boots were the Pontiff’s famous signature article of clothing. During his tenure as the Archbishop of the Galveston-Huston archdiocese, his extensive collection of boots was a running joke inside the College of Cardinals. His colleagues had nicknamed him the Rodeo Cardinal. Once appointed as the first Pope to lead the Church in the aftermath of the Blessed Collisions, he had kept only a few pairs—his favorite ones—and had given up on wearing the spurs, which was something he considered a glorious personal victory in his epic struggle with the double-headed demon of pride and vanity.
He met Elano with his arms wide open.
“Elano, dear! Son—”
Elano got down on one knee, bowed his head, and searched for the Pontiff’s right hand for the traditional obedience kiss.
“Holy Father,” Elano said, “My soul finds joy in thy—”
“Oh, to hell with the protocol!” the Pope said and pulled him up. He hugged Elano quickly, took him by the elbow, and led him right away toward a drape-covered side door.
“I heard the Western tribes have developed a… how should I say… heightened awareness of the fear of the Lord?” Inocentis III said, winking at Elano.
“The cross or the sword, Father.”
“Aha! Never a third choice! That’s what I like about my Marines—God’s Marines—on the shield or under the shield! Never a third choice,” the Pope continued as he pulled the drape to the side, pushed down on the doorknob, and opened the door for Elano.
“I have a surprise for my youngest Cardinal,” he said, beaming with excitement. “No Jesuit ever shies away from a theologically loaded surprise, am I correct?”
Elano forced himself to smile.
“You bet your soul I am, son!” the Pope said, and he patted Elano on his back.
They both stepped inside the hidden antechamber.
The antechamber was meant to serve as the Pontiff’s prayer room, but, in the good old fashion of ecclesiastic tradition, it was used mostly for hosting private conversations between Inocentis III and his close confidants. In a corner, a large-print Bible rested open on top of a small lectern, with a knee stool at its base.
Across from it, an entire wall was occupied with a life-size Resurrection tapestry. Shrouded in a corona of blinding light, Jesus was bursting through the gates of a crude sepulcher, while the Roman centurions crawled away on all fours, shielding their faces in the crook of their arms, further and further away from the light. Yet, from behind a nearby rolled stone, three veiled women apparently had no problem with the radiant explosion; enrapt in pure adoration, faces drenched in unending streams of tears, the women kept their eyes on the Resurrected One.
Inocentis III and Elano passed in front of the tapestry as they strolled inside.
“I mean, isn’t the Gospel itself the ultimate surprise? Sunday morning comes and voila: the Lord’s missing!” the Pope said, and giggled.
The two men stopped in front of the female replika seated in a chair. She was still in her nun robe; the fallen hood allowed her blonde curls to fall freely around the perfect oval of her face. Her large eyes panned immediately from the Swiss Guard frozen at her side to the two newcomers.
The Pope dismissed the Guard with a short han
d gesture, then waited for the soldier to exit the room before pointing at the replika:
“Behold the woman!” Inocentis III said. “Not born of the flesh, but of the tube. That monster named her… Double-M! How fitting.”
Conflicted yet strangely fascinated at the sight of Double-M, Elano sized her up for a few long seconds. He’d heard more than one story about the inhabitants of Harlequin Island—mostly from the nuns and monks who’d served on Domus Mariae—but he’d never met a replika face to face before.
“Anybody famous?” he said at last, glancing back at the Pope.
“Oh, the whore of Babylon from back in the day. They all fornicated with her—actors, writers, presidents—the Devil himself, if you ask me!”
“I didn’t screw the Devil!” Double-M blurted, glaring at Inocentis III.
“Well, my dear, I’m thrilled to hear that,” the Pope said. “No need to get feisty, though. I was just simply reminiscing about the one… in whose image you were made. So, please, nothing to be taken personally.” And he smiled.
Elano took a step back and leaned against the wall, to the side of the Resurrection tapestry. He stared at Double-M. Facing a replika for the first time, he felt defeated. She was indeed a puppet, but he couldn’t have told her apart from any other real woman out there. She looked strikingly… human. There was no discernible feature by which one could tell she’d been grown from a clump of cells trapped inside a glass-covered sarcophagus. The only thing that set her apart was her beauty: she was flawless and fragile, with eyes always wide open as if the whole world was nothing but an excuse to wonder.
Elano turned to Inocentis III. “How did she get on land?”
“She gave her heart to the Lord, like all the other runaways—no offense to Micon, the old man’s a saint, we both know that,” the Pope said. “Then she seduced this novice monk, a pilot on one of the supply helicopters, who couldn’t keep his pecker in his pants. Lord have mercy on his soul, I grounded the son of a—it doesn’t matter, my son, really. God bless the custom nuns; nothing slips by the sisters. They’ll find a needle in a haystack, and a… harlot hiding on a helicopter.”
The Pope grinned at Double-M. Her lips opened for a brief moment, but no words left her mouth. Her eyes squinted as she held the Pope’s stare.
“So, my dear, would you be so kind to share with us the… good news?”
She turned to Elano, smiled, and nodded at the painting on the wall.
“I saw Jesus,” she said.
The Pope glanced at Elano, then back at Double-M.
“You had a vision, my dear?” the Pope asked again.
“No. I saw him in person,” she replied.
“You met the Lord?” Elano said, a slight frown taking over his face.
Double-M’s lips arched seductively; her eyes glistened as she panned them over the tapestry on the wall. The Savior’s face was serene and triumphant; his hands still bore the marks of the Holy Friday ordeal, scars meant to last an eternity.
Finally, she turned her eyes on Elano.
“‘Met him’ ain’t sayin’ the whole damn truth, handsome,” she said.
“Blessed Mother of God!” Inocentis III said.
Holding back a rush of sudden outrage, Elano locked eyes with those of the replika seated before him. Her skewed simper was loaded with hidden meanings reeking of blasphemy, obscene words never to be spoken in any human tongue, images of bodies mashed into each other, of groping hands and drooling mouths and muscles covered in thin layers of sweat, cursed pictures that once penetrating the mind would condemn the soul to the eternal pits of Hell itself.
“Who are you?” Elano demanded, each word barely escaping his clenched jaw.
She nodded at the picture on the wall.
“I’m the one Jesus loves,” Double-M said. “Now, that boy’s a real lover, swear to God.”
Elano turned to the Pope, his eyes desperately seeking for an answer.
The Pope shook his head in dismay.
“The bastard finally did it!” Inocentis III said and crossed himself.
10
The GEPPETTO INDUSTRIES logo glowed incandescent as shafts of sunrays crashed into the parabolic mirrors of the solar furnaces that lined the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, then bounced back into the polarized glass facade of the skyrise.
Ten stories below, the vista of Harlequin Island opened up to view: a megalopolis on stilts, like a mammoth offshore oilrig but without the derricks, cranes, and drilling installations. Instead, pagoda-like buildings, solar farms, and wind turbines decked a giant base platform that covered an area about the size of Manhattan. As the sun chased the morning fog away, the artificial island’s contour slowly dissolved into a collection of blue pastels splattering the surface of the surrounding ocean.
The island was shaped like an infinity sign with two unequal loops, one roughly twice the size of the other. A three-mile-wide forest covered the island’s narrowest strip: the area where the two loops intersected. The thick patch of dark underbrush and giant trees completely segregated the smallest loop—the Replika Ghetto, with its warehouse-like buildings cluttered around a jumble of narrow streets—from the biggest loop hosting the island’s main residential area: the downtown. At the heart of the downtown lied the Koliseum: an imposing, circular arena the size of a football field, surrounded by scores of tiered low-rise buildings. The Geppetto Industries pagoda soared over all of them, with ten stories of nothing but glass, steel, and ornate balustrades.
A heavily powdered, short rococo wig adorned Sir Gottfrey’s head. Layers upon layers of cylindrical curls fell on either side of his effeminate face, while a thin layer of lotion added a much-needed gloss to an otherwise ashen complexion. Reclining in a nongrav armchair hovering motionless on the terrace of his executive suite, the man was enjoying the morning sun caressing the skin of his face.
He was not alone; his organs kept him company.
Scattered all around him, his heart, liver, lungs, stomach, and kidneys levitated three feet in the air, each organ encased in a bulletproof glass box—an ideal germ-and-virus-free bio-enhancing environment tailored to ensure molecular regeneration at a rate twice as fast as that of a mere mortal. An array of ducts, hoses, and tubes connected the encased organs to their original host organism, the appendages coiling back into Sir Gottfrey’s hollow body through hook-ups rigged into his vest like the life-support valves on an astronaut’s spacesuit.
To kill time, he was fumbling with the edges of his blood-red bowtie, trying to tighten its hold around his scrawny neck. His closed eyelids quivered now and then, but he endured the celestial body’s radiant touch stoically, determined to let the sun do its rejuvenating work. The man knew that his bet with eternity depended on his partnership with the light the heavenly bodies emanated, the gentle ropes of their gravity, the unerring rhythm of day and night, the sublime harmony of the opposites—the Yin and the bloody Yang. The Taoists had it right: you’re either in sync or out of sync; you either swim against the current, or flow down the stream. Hence, never, under any circumstances, piss against the bloody wind!
That was the extent of Sir Gottfrey’s consent to perennial religious verities. But then again, he’d never thought of Taoism as a religion. He viewed it more like a natural philosophy steeped in myths populated by fire-spitting dragons, chopstick-wielding sages, and bowls dripping with maggoty noodles, and maybe a Kung Fu champ kicking and screaming, and breaking bloody boards with his skull bone.
Lovely…
The man always started the day with a prelude to his longevity regimen—he called it “Vitamin D at Daybreak,” and loved the alliteration. The rejuvenation of his facial membrane was something he still preferred doing the old-fashioned way, a leftover from a previous era. He wouldn’t have gone so far as to slap slices of cucumber on his face, but he had grown infatuated with algae-based facial cream Yoshiro and his lads had developed it from scratch—it sped up the bloodstream absorption of the solar gift, while eliminating 99.7 p
ercent of the side effects of harmful radiation.
He let the breeze wash over the pores of his well-moisturized derma for a few more seconds, then inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. Blinking rapidly, he turned his sterile irises away from the sun. He picked up a pair of round eyeglasses from his lap and set them on the bridge of his nose—they were vintage spectacles that belonged to no one but John Lennon himself.
The man had paid a fortune for them at the end of a long auction night at Sotheby’s. It had happened the same November day Oxford University had named him head of their most-trumpeted Bioengineering Advanced Research Initiative, and he felt quite entitled to blow through a little over a million pounds on a well-deserved gift to himself. He was also drunk out of his mind, and hence ten times more prone to make a statement concerning the lack of intrinsic value of the English currency as opposed to the inherent worth of prehistoric Rock ‘n’ Roll memorabilia. I mean, bloody hell, the Egyptians had wrapped all their kings and queens in rolls of gauze for thousands of years and stored them inside man-built caverns—at the very least, someone should collect Beatles paraphernalia in our age! Yes, here comes the sun, little darling; it’s been a long cold lonely winter, little darling. Here comes the bloody sun.
Humming, Sir Gottfrey fiddled with the small knob at the end of one of the armrests, and the nongrav armchair spun in place. Hovering three feet above ground, he glided the armchair across the terrace and back inside the building through the sliding doors that parted with a hiss as he approached them.
Towing behind their once-upon-a-time host organism, his organs bounced happily at the end of their hoses, like the deformed tentacles of an octopus.
Runaway Nun (Misbegotten) Page 5