Beaver’s eyes suddenly widened. To think that a group of people could live without Bio-marks, seemed like a folklore-ish tale of absurdity.
“Now … old Verb-bot here is where you run into trouble”--he continued; as he slapped the android on the shoulder.
“All Academy androids have a direct link to the Electron-Bank. You could put him anywhere on Earth, in any condition or place and they would still find him. Right? However, this old boy has been greatly modified.”--He said with a pause.
All of a sudden Morgan’s stern face turned into a smile as he called—
“Verb-bot … slap me some skin!”
The android suddenly changed its posture and walking style. It seemingly strutted across the floor and slapped Morgan’s hand. It then turned and confronted Beaver.
“It’s the Bees Knees, Cool cat! Slip me some of that funky five! Radical!” The robot barked in some sort of mid-ancient dialect that Beaver had never heard before.
“What?!” Beaver said, as he was purely bewildered.
“Gee Wiz! Don’t be goofy! Fer Sure!” it sounded again.
“What?!” Beaver said again, because he had no clue as to what it was asking.
“Slap his hand.” Morgan stated with great amusement.
Beaver reluctantly hit the android’s hand, in a strange ritual that bore for him no meaning at all.
“Proper!” the odd autonomy shouted, as it walked away to reassume its former positioning.
“That was amazing! We need an army of these!” Beaver resounded without forethought.
“Now … now … I was only able to find an exploit in this particular model. These things are pretty rare. And even if you had an army, as you say, I was never able to fully access his motor controls … so your warriors would be very handicapped in battle. Now, please don’t interrupt again”--Morgan squawked, trying to regain his thought process.
“Oh yes--since you now know more about us, you need to also know why we are here.” Morgan said as he sat down from his pacing at his Lev-desk.
Just then, Morgan stopped his talk. He could see the level of contemplation upon Beaver’s face, about what he had just mentioned. He knew there was something hidden, deep down that Beaver wanted to say, but he was very afraid to.
“It’s ok. No one here will harm you. What do you want to say?” Morgan said with a great concern.
Beaver suddenly shut his eyes in fright. Images of the bunker and the deaths of his loved ones flashed before his eyes. He also was entranced with all of the times he was beaten and tortured by Acad-thugs throughout his wretched days. His inner being struggled with a one-sided fierce battle, like fighting a great enemy with a broken sword. He wanted to say what he was thinking, but he knew that his words were forbidden. They were the very words of death upon his tongue, yet he had to let them go free. He was engulfed with his father’s screaming and each syllable pierced his very soul. Haphazardly, he could stand his inner war no more.
“Is it because of someone named Jesus?” Beaver cried out like a scared child, with tears rolling from his eyes.
“Please … Please tell me--Who is he? Why is he important? Why did my father and Matthew scream his name?” He pleaded with passion, as he was overcome with emotion.
This was the first time in his life that he felt he had the liberty to grieve. His heart was adrift with the outgushing of all the inner sorrow and heartache that he had held on to for all these spans. He was doing something that he was told with seemingly every crack of an electro-whip, never to do.
“Don’t you cry! Don’t you wail! Just shut up and take it! You failed your Great Master! You failed your Academy! SdotG! SdotG!”
--the Academy scum would scream as he was beaten, sometimes for procs.
They abused him in his adolescence, every time he did not do to perfection what they wanted. This kept him merely existing without feeling or emotion. Beaver was not a sociopath by birth. He was made one, by the rigor of barbarous suffering and torment.
The duo surrounded him and went to their knees, in some sort of ritual that he had never seen or experienced. As Beaver cried, he noticed that they were crying too. It was as if they were feeling his emotion, his pain, and was trying to help him to cope with it. All of a sudden, both of them laid their hands upon Beaver and began speaking many words. As they softly spoke, Beaver was dumbfounded because they both kept saying in the name of that forbidden word, along with phrases that seemed to be of another language. Soon, he began to feel an inner calm, a peace surrounding him that caused his crying to stop.
“Tim … Matthew die-- Matthew died in my arms! I watched him die!” Beaver trembled with his eyes shut.
As he thought about that terrible life’s episode, suddenly his eyes popped open and widened greatly. In all of the commotion and travels this Decision day, he had forgotten about his entire reasoning for going to the dugout in the first place.
“Tim’s artifact!--I mean Matthew’s” Beaver shouted.
The two surrounding him released and stood, not understanding what he was talking about.
“It was the reason he died--it has to be very important!” Beaver said with a renewed hope, also standing to his feet from the dusty chair.
“What are you talking about?” Morgan spoke inquisitively, as he went back to his Lev-desk.
“What is it, Beaver?” Bobble too asked with question.
Beaver then looked down and unclipped his hammersack.
“Matthew died for this…” he spoke as he placed the antiquity upon the Lev-desk, under a rusted desk lamp. Morgan’s eyes greatly widened as he looked upon this hidden contraband.
“Leather!” Beaver exclaimed, as he too got his first good look.
“What?!” Bobble barked at his outburst.
“It’s leather! That’s how he made it past all the sentries and androids! They probably thought it was simply more clothing!” Beaver said, bringing more of his personal mystery together.
“… and you are correct--The Academy never really updated the apparel protocols after everyone started wearing oversuits--that programming is at least 14 spans old! Ha!” Morgan bellowed, laughing in amusement.
It was to him like the mid-ancient expression that he knew called sticking it to the Man. (whoever the man even was.)
As they all looked in fascination, they pondered with much confusion. The reason was, engraved and burned into the leather was a foreign writing that perplexed them. It was scrawled in a script, that none of them had any idea, as to what it even was.
“Verb-bot…translative scanner!” Morgan shouted, as he pointed at the antiquity. A greenish beam of light flickered from the android’s hand as it scanned the puzzle before them.
“Language unknown…” Verb-bot returned as the light stopped.
“Wait a tict”--Morgan said agitated, as he arose from his Lev-seat.
He then seemingly disappeared in the hills and valleys of electronic playthings. After a few moments, he rematerialized holding a small black squareish thing that had metal prongs sticking out of its sides.
“Beaver2416--do you know the best way to shut up a noisy salsa?” Morgan said, in a jovial tone.
“No …” Beaver quipped, not understanding what a salsa was.
“You feed it a chip …” Morgan told, as he shoved the small square into an orifice in the back of Verb-bot.
“Now … Verb-bot--Translative scanner.” Morgan echoed, pointing again at the opened leather on the Lev-desk. The beam of light returned and then dimmed slightly after a few moments.
Verb-bot then told his findings—
“Language found, Grecian.”
Morgan again sat down in his Lev-seat, with a look of great concern upon his face. Upon watching, Beaver knew that Morgan must have heard of Grecian before.
With hesitation, Morgan said “Ok, Verb-bot--Read.”
The android whirred and clicked, much like the victual android in Beaver’s domicile. After several ticts, it suddenly spoke in an ev
en stranger dialect than before—
”Kai í̱tan óles gemátes me to Ágio Pnév̱ma, kai árchisan na miloún xénes gló̱sses, ópo̱s to Pnév̱ma tous édo̱se ti̱n ékfrasi̱ …”
Morgan could only shake his head in frustration.
“Verb-bot … Stop!”--He demanded--“Now… Verb-bot--read in English, from the top of the page …” The light returned and the android again started thinking—
“… And when day of Pentecost was fully coming, they were all with one cord one place. And sudden there came sound from heaven as Russian might wind, and it filled all housing where were sitting. And there a pear on to them clove tongues like as fire, and sat up on each them. And were all filling with the Holy Ghost, and began to speaking with other tongues, as the Spirit give udder ants …”
Morgan was filled with a look of fright, as if all the blood in his head had somehow drained out.
“VERB-BOT STOP! Turn the page, and read in English from the top …”
The mechanical robot reached down and carefully turned the leather. It then started scanning again.
“… Now when they hearing this, they were prickle in the heart, and said unto Peter and rest a post less, Men and brothers, what shall we do? Peter said them, Repent, and be baby ties every one you in name of Jesus Christ for the re-mission of sins, and you shall receiving the gift of the Holy Ghost. For pro mass is to you, and you children, and all that are far off, as many the Lord our God shall calling. And many other words he test frying and exit arcing, say, save selves from un-tow ward general nation. Then they gladly receiving his word were baby ties: and same day were added them about three thousand souls. And continuity fast in a post less' doctor rind and fellow shipping, and break bread, and prayers. Fearing came upon every soul: and many wonder rings and signage were done by a post less. All believing were together, had all thing come on; sold their post session goods, and parted to all men, as every man had needing. Continuity daily one a cord in temple, breaking bread from housing to housing, did eating meat with glade ness and single heart, Racing God, and favoring with all the people. And the Lord added the church daily such as should be saved. End of page …”--Verb-bot said, stopping its reading.
Beaver could only gaze at Morgan, wondering what he was thinking. Morgan was still in a state of shock as he considered what was read.
“Do… do… do… you … you know what this is?” Morgan said, looking at the two puzzled souls before him.
Bobble and Beaver could only shake their heads in the negative, not knowing what was even read to them.
“This… this … is the history book--The record of the far-ancient church! What they taught … What they believed! We only had parts and pieces, but never a complete volume! This is priceless!”
The word church that Morgan spoke and Verb-bot echoed, struck a sharp chord with Beaver.
“What CHURCH!? All Churches are EVIL! Churches are filled with HATE!”--he said with a sharp tongue, reacting with years of Academy propaganda fed into his sociopathic mind.
“No … Beaver2416--Not this one. This church is the true church. This is the church that Jesus Christ built.” Morgan spoke in a consoling tone.
“I know that you don’t understand all of this right now--as well as Verb-bot needs some vast updating in his translation skills. But, to answer your question--Yes. We are the followers of Jesus. These around you represent some of the last disciples and followers of an unauthorized and prohibited faith. There are more of us throughout this war-torn world--but how many and where, is not for you to know right now.”--Morgan continued.
He then rested his hand upon the Leather manuscript. “This book that Matthew died for represents an original record of that faith. It existed far before any Academy or any Great Conflict. It is living proof that every word and every action that the Academy doles out in the name of their master is an absolute lie. It is God’s holy and anointed word--and that’s why he was willing to give his life as a martyr for it.”
Beaver thought hard about what he was told. He knew deep down that this--all of this was the truth. How he knew, was beyond his comprehension. However, what was truly found in his psyche was the fact that the Academy is evil. He knew that without a single doubt, the very day he left the bunker. He also knew that his family, his father, and his friend all died for the same cause. After digesting Morgan’s words for a few ticts, Beaver calmly spoke.
“Are you the Revilers?” he vocalized with a feeling of anticipation.
Morgan smiled at such a question.
“No Beaver2416--YOU are the last of the Revilers.” Morgan said, pointing his finger at Beaver’s chest.
“For me to be a Reviler, would mean that my Father was one as well, right?” Beaver slowly stated with inquisition, trying to make sense of such a statement.
“Yes, as well as everyone who lived in the bunker with you. You were all Revilers.” Morgan answered, with a grin.
Beaver now fully assured in himself that Morgan was telling the truth, immediately questioned--“What’s my real name?”
“Nothing more will I tell you now--It’s growing late and you must leave.” Morgan spoke with an intensity.
Beaver suddenly realized that he had spent the entire light in their presence.
“You are right! I have to leave …” Beaver said as he stood to his feet in a slight panic.
“Verb-bot … do your thang.” Morgan called, as he also slowly stood.
The android walked to the Lev-desk and took the manuscript into an adjacent room.
“Don’t worry … it will be safe.” Morgan assured Beaver2416.
He then opened a drawer in the Lev-desk and strapped something around Beaver’s wrist.
“Bobble will lead you out the front entrance … and when you reach the surface you must quickly run around the outside of the Bazaar, and then get on a transport. Bobble will take a much shorter path and will be standing by the transports to take this bio-jammer from you, before you get on. Your running will make it seem to the Academy’s short-range bio-scanners (if you are scanned), as if you just took a long stroll today around Stowelowly, and nothing more. Bobble will meet you again next decision day, and I will tell you more then--now go!” Morgan bellowed, pointing towards the back wall of the sea of junk.
Bobble grabbed his hand and caused him to race through the large domicile. He quickly led him to the far side of the area, through the literal maze of electronic parts. On the back wall, there was another air-locked missile chamber, converted into a hov-vator. With a few key presses on the electron-lock, they entered and began their super-speed trek to the surface.
“Remember! Run around the outside of the Bazaar and high tail it to the transport! I will be waiting for you there!” Bobble yelled as the Hov-vator slowed its assent.
Beaver could only nod in agreement.
Suddenly, they could see the fainting of light from the surface, as the door opened. They were inside of another crumbling building, across the pathway from the bazaar. This time they appeared in a small, locked room once used for laundry.
“One more thing… you must NEVER enter this way. Exiting is fine, but to enter … you have to go through the caves. We will tell you more about it next Decision day--now go quickly!”
Beaver abruptly left the building, running past a Humble guard, who had set up a false place of business inside. It was done as a front, to cover for the Hov-vator hidden in the back. It was set up in a style, much like the underground speakeasies and supper clubs of the former time.
“You’ll never make it!” the Humble laughed, as Beaver jetted out the door. He ran with all his might around to the rear of the bazaar. Some of the Humbles, watched amused and seemingly began to make wagers on his outcome. He then turned the corner and ran as fast as he could across the front. More of the Humbles began peeking out of broken windows and hallways, to watch the Westbrookian and his sprinting. As he reached the end of the Bazaar, he breathlessly turned towards the path leading to the transports.
His pace began to greatly slow as he was running out of energy.
As he breached the horizon he could see Bobble, standing like always trying to peddle his wares. This gave him enough mental thrust to shoot forward towards the final transport. As he passed by, Bobble quickly grabbed the bio-jammer off of his wrist, and put it on his own. Beaver then leaped into the air and swung on the rev-pole into an empty seat.
“Safety is empirical!” the mechanized driver said with his robotic head turned towards Beaver. As the transport warbled towards home, all Beaver could say in his exhausted state was “… hea … th … en.”
Chapter 11:
As the days passed since his adventure, each light at his workjob was agonizing. Beaver hard scrutinized everything that had happened, looking for anything he did not notice upon first experience. He was entranced with the thoughts of caves, leather books, and the Schism; much more than giving tosses and threatening people. What disturbed him the most was something that Morgan had said--
“Beaver2416, YOU are the last of the Revilers.”
He could not help but dwell upon this statement, every single light and dark. He had to know more—much more about who his parents were and what they did. He also wanted his last question to Morgan, of his true name, answered more than anything.
Suddenly Beaver was jolted, like awaking from a dream.
“Beaver2416 … please report to O.L.” --his ambient plugs buzzed. This time it was expected, because as usual it was another period for promotions, before the next Decision day break. Beaver left the work floor through the side door and doffed his regalia. He sighed greatly as he knew what came next.
“Heathen!” he vocalized as he slammed the Orange button. The cosmo-bot appeared with all of its appendages from inside of the Lev-desk. It then performed its task quickly, whirring and clicking as it went.
“Modeling complete”--it squeaked as it retracted. This time his Brownish locks were now a Reddish Auburn. His hair was styled in what was known as Reo-fashion, with it shortened and left spiky in appearance. His face left with strips of facial hair resembling a flag’s stripes. And again, Beaver hated every bit of it. All he could do is roll his eyes in disgust as he left the office.
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