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Mr. Moon’s Daredevil Messiahs
Brian S. Wheeler
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2013 by Brian S. Wheeler
Mr. Moon’s Daredevil Messiahs
Contents
Chapter 1 – Eternal Fountains of Gold
Chapter 2 – The Memory Shop
Chapter 3 – Divine Vessels
Chapter 4 – Celebrity on Fire
Chapter 5 – Abomination
Chapter 6 – Lynching in the Park
Chapter 7 – Memory Without Ceremony
Chapter 8 – New Gardens
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Chapter 1 - Eternal Fountains of Gold…
“Over here, Registrar Ferris! I say! Over here!”
Calvin Moon poked his fingers into his mouth and whistled above his stunt location’s din of whirling cameras and bustling technicians. The thin, silver-haired man dressed in a Registrar’s customary dark suit, here accentuated by the pink tie that identified that Lester Ferris was the Registrar who would be responsible for the stunt’s approval, waved stiffly back at the stunt artist to show he heard that whistle. Mr. Moon frowned. He had worked with Registrar Lester Ferris several times in the past, and Mr. Moon knew that Registrar Ferris would not overlook any oversight his crew may have made in preparation for the day’s stunt.
“You’re looking slim as always, Registrar Ferris. May I help you with your briefcase?”
Registrar Ferris’ gray eyes chuckled at the offer. “It’s quite alright, Mr. Moon. It’s not my first walk around the block. I’ll manage the tools of my trade just fine, thank you.”
Mr. Moon responded with a wry smile. Mr. Moon was the most famous, and the wealthiest, of all the day’s celebrity stunt artists. People stampeded the memory shops’ doors on the first day their dream tanks offered a new memory of Mr. Moon’s stunts. People took out second mortgages to taste the rush of a Mr. Moon stunt memory before their neighbors. Mr. Moon had provided that hungry market with stunt memories of walking across a biplane’s wing, of hurtling by rocket-pack power across river canyons, of descending, breathless, into the deepest and most dangerous pressures of the sea. Mr. Moon had given the hungry crowd thrilling memories of jumping from city skyscrapers, of skydiving from balloons perched upon the edge of space, of striding through explosions and flame, of leaping upon moving trains. In return, those crowds loved Mr. Moon. They made him wealthy. And in doing so, they gave Mr. Moon the confidence and clout to know that Registrar Ferris might on a technicality delay his newest-dreamed venture, but that in the end that man in the pink tie would be unable to prevent him from achieving his stunt dream no matter whatever small infraction the Registrar might find.
“So, where’s our clone? Where’s your Gus?”
“He’s just up on the ramp looking the over the jump a last time,” and Mr. Moon returned his fingers to his mouth and again shrilled over the noise of his cameras and technicians.
Gus, the clone whose coordination and poise would achieve Mr. Moon’s artistic stunt vision, lingered a second longer to stare from the top of his motorcycle ramp across the divide over which he would fly. He revved his black motorcycle’s engine before turning the bike around and riding back to Mr. Moon waiting for him at the start of the asphalt lane that ran to his ramp.
“How you feeling today, Gus?” Mr. Moon patted the top of Gus’s black helmet, branded with the white, crescent moon that served as the stunt artist’s logo, his brand seen in every stunt memory designed by his mind. “Are you feeling energetic? Are you brimming with pep?”
Gus winced as Registrar Ferris flashed a humming, hand-held scanner’s light into his right eye to read the blue rings of hashes and binary code that told a man trained as Registrar Ferris of every detail in that clone’s construction. Mankind branded every clone the Company introduced to the market with those blue rings tattooed around the right eye. No matter if the clone was a meek model assigned to plant and plow in the field, or one of the tantalizing, feminine pleasure toys, each clone received the blue circles of the Company’s brand. The inner-most ring consisted of hashes, which in a Registrar’s scanner displayed the genetic bonds that made each clone possible. Such hashes could relate a clone’s lean towards sickness and towards health, and Registrars were rumored to hold the skill to predict the death of the short-lived clones by quickly reading a strand of those hashes. The outer ring of zeros and ones was a serial code that told a Registrar the clone’s place of construction, an identifier that linked each clone to an owner as a title might connect driver to car. The Registrars never shared what information they took from their scans. Those blue rings expressed a language only Registrars could read, an alphabet whose secrets the Registrars guarded.
“You sure that jump’s four-hundred feet, Mr. Moon?”
Registrar Ferris suddenly turned the light away from the blue rings circling the clone’s right eye and squinted at Gus. Mr. Moon flinched.
Anxiety twitched Gus’s hand, and the clone’s motorcycle engine revved. It was never a clone’s place to question. It was a clone’s place to do. Thus Gus gulped before he continued. “I’m real sorry I asked, Mr. Moon. But I barely cleared the three-hundred and seventy-five feet of last week’s jump. That jump was only supposed to be three-hundred and fifty. But there’s always a few extra feet, and those few extra feet get to meaning a whole lot when I’m jumping that kind of a divide.”
Gus forced himself to breath. No matter what the Company printed in their catalogs concerning his model of clone, Gus very often felt afraid. But what else could he do? It was expensive to stage the stunts required to create the memories Mr. Moon wished to harvest. Everyone needed an increasingly sp
ectacular thrill. In the midst of some previous jump atop that black motorcycle, Gus’s mind had fired, and though he was only a clone, he had realized he would never be able to provide enough thrill. Mr. Moon would always push for more.
“You don’t sound like yourself, Gus.” Mr. Moon squinted at his rider. “There’s nothing to this jump. That motorcycle that’s purring beneath you is top of the line. It’s light, and it has all the horsepower, and then some, that you need to fly across that space. Trust me, Gus. I got all the numbers locked down.”
Gus’ heart raced. He dreaded to push his concern. But the anxiety burned in his throat as he peeked behind him at the ramp that waited for him.
“Then what’s with all the coolers stacked on the far side?” asked Gus. “There’s never been so many coolers before.”
Glancing at Registrar Ferris, Mr. Moon forced a weak kind of laugh. “There’s nothing new there, Gus. We always keep those coolers nearby. You know that.”
Gus tensed on that motorcycle. He knew he could not retreat from that ramp. Mr. Moon had painted his white moon logo onto all the components that the consumer would witness when tasting the memory of Gus’ jump. All of the pieces were assembled, and Gus was placed atop that black motorcycle. He was only a clone, with the right eye branded by the clone’s mark, by those blue rings of binary numbers and hashes that detailed his genetic recipe. He was only a Gus, and it was his place to go faster, to fly further, to burn brighter so that his creators could share in his memory of the surging adrenaline.
Gus patiently waited, his heart thumping against his fire-resistant jacket, as Registrar Ferris retuned the light to his face and scanned his clone’s brand, checking the data to insure that Gus was properly registered, that there remained no leans against him, that Mr. Moon had properly insured the clone he had financed through the Company. The moments moved slowly in Gus’ mind, but soon Registrar Ferris took a step away from that motorcycle and returned his scanner to his briefcase.
“You’re the real deal,” Registrar Ferris nodded.
Mr. Moon clapped his hands. “You hear that, Gus? The real deal. I know good stock when I see it. Don’t let your knees go weak. This jump’s nothing to you. Only a hop and a wink. Have I let you down before?”
Gus shook his head. “I’m still standing on this here motorcycle.”
Mr. Moon slapped Gus’s helmet and pulled down his clone’s dark visor. “You wouldn’t think it, Gus, but I envy you and your brothers. To think about the rush you must feel the moment your tire lifts from the ground.”
“I thought the whole reason I was getting ready to do this stunt was so that mankind could safely experience the thrill of it without feeling the harm of it.”
“You don’ understand. How could you?” Mr. Moon frowned. “It’s not fair of me to expect you to. You’re only a Gus. But I’m the designer of these stunts. I dream up one parachute drop after another, and every one has to be a greater spectacle than the one that came before. I can only write out all the equations governing the physics of every one of my car wrecks. It’s your kind, Gus, who gets to ride all the motorcycles, who get to jump out of all those planes. People don’t want to hear about all my science. They want the simple thrill. And you’re the one who gives that to them, Gus. They’ll worship you for it.”
Gus sighed inside of his helmet. What use did he have for glory? “Sorry to make you worry, Mr. Moon, or if I’ve let you down in any way. It’s the adrenaline that’s talking. It’s only because I felt the wind shift slightly as I checked the jump out on top of the ramp.”
Mr. Moon winked. “Even the wind can’t stop you, Gus. You won’t let me down.”
Gus twisted a wrist, and the motorcycle popped forward as the clone rode beyond Mr. Moon and Registrar Ferris to the group of technicians gathered at the very start of the asphalt path leading to the ramp who were ready to put the motorcycle through its final inspection.
Registrar Ferris lingered after he clasped closed his suitcase, though it was not his custom to remain and witness the unfolding of any of Mr. Moon’s stunts.
“How many stunts has that clone pulled off?”
Mr. Moon rolled his eyes. “Hard to believe, but he’s pulled off eleven attempts. A clean dozen if he manages to launch that motorcycle across this one.”
“You think he’s gonna make it?”
Mr. Moon shrugged. “I didn’t really think he’d make the last four.”
“Then why risk it? A clone might not be a man, but a clone is certainly a very expensive piece of equipment.”
“It’s the most expensive piece of equipment,” Mr. Moon responded, “but we’ve gotten our investment, and then some out of this Gus. It’s all icing now. And these last jumps he’s made are just incredible. People can’t get enough of it. If he makes this jump, my investment will come back in diamonds. If not, I step away from the motorcycle jumping for a bit. Let that niche calm down while I try something else. Maybe something with cages and sharks.”
Registrar Ferris stared at the clone who sat, motionless, atop that motorcycle as the technicians checked the tires one last time, listened once more to the revving engine. There had been something different about that clone, something Registrar Ferris had not anticipated witnessing.
“Have you noticed any change in that Gus’ personality? Is he the same clone now as he was the first day you placed him on that bike?”
Mr. Moon’s face paled. “You said the numbers and the hashes ad up. You better believe I’m doing this by the book. I’ve invested too much to jeopardize this stunt by doing anything under the table.”
“Not what I meant. Has that Gus changed?”
Mr. Moon slowly nodded. “His questions seemed odd for a clone.
“I would agree, Mr. Moon.”
Mr. Moon was very happy when Registrar Ferris offered no further observation and took a place among the technicians to watch the next jump made by that particular clone model named Gus. A technician raised a black flag, upon which was stitched a crescent, white moon. Mr. Moon poked his fingers into his mouth and returned a whistle, and so gave the final approval. It was then all up to Gus to roar that motorcycle down that lane and launch himself into the four-hundred and thirty feet that Mr. Moon knew to be the true measurement of the divide.
Gus’s strong hand pulled back upon the throttle and roared towards the ramp, a black blur of speed. Gus fed fuel to the engine without hesitation, and his motorcycle did a little more than a hundred miles per hour as it hit the waiting ramp. Mr. Moon and the witnessing crowd held their breath as Gus launched himself into the jump’s graceful arc, the clone’s poised body atop that bike making all of it look easy, the clone’s skill tricking the mind into believing there was nothing unnatural concerning the way a piece of metal and a body of flesh attempted to fly.
Mr. Moon smiled as his eyes tracked Gus’s flight, his mind salivating for the taste of that memory he expected the day’s stunt would harvest. It would be a marvelous memory. Even the most jaded of memory consumers would swoon as that memory washed over their minds. And Gus made it look so easy perched atop that black motorcycle. Mr. Moon’s nimble mind knew Gus had hit the ramp just right, that the arc would precisely deliver that motorcycle to the other side. Next week, Mr. Moon would widen that divide a little further. With that particular clone model named Gus, Mr. Moon knew he could push the envelope a little more.
Only four-hundred and thirty feet was an awful distance, a chasm that left so much room for malfunction.
Forty fountains of golden sparks and orange flames waited for Gus to fly overhead in the divide between the ramps. The technicians had installed forty fountains of pyrotechnic wonder set to explode when that motorcycle flew overhead, forty jets of brilliance that would make the stunt memory all the more wonderful. Gus soared above the first twelve fountains a wink before they launched their fiery plumes into the high sky. But the thirteenth fountain erupted a wink too soon, and Gus sailed through the orange and gold pillar of sparking fire before ex
iting the other side burning in flame, transformed in a wink into a comet whose arc streaked across the sky.
Mr. Moon could not move as he watched that comet fly. His arms would not lift from his sides. His breath could carry no words to scream out from his throat. The timing of those remaining fountains was all wrong, and Gus flew through one pillar of flame and into another, while his motorcycle’s momentum wrestled against those fountains’ resistance to reach the ramp that waited on the other side of that wide divide.
Gus felt the pain eating upon his skin as he continued to soar. His helmet filled with gold as his motorcycle crashed through the fountains. His hands burned upon the handlebars, but Gus clutched for control no matter the pain. He was but a Gus, and so he had no option other than to ride that arc through all those golden fountains of fire and pray he would reach the divide’s other side to realize Mr. Moon’s dream.
Something strange happened to Gus somewhere between fountains twenty-seven and thirty-two. A vision formed amid those sparks and flames enveloping him. The world beyond Gus’s helmet turned white, and a figure with brilliant, spinning halos of pearl and silver walked into his sight like a man who stepped through an invisible door that had opened somewhere beyond the waiting landing zone. Gus’s pain retreated as the figure raised his arms towards the flying clone. Gus felt a blanket’s comforting warmth embrace him.
Gus nearly made the four-hundred and thirty feet of that jump as a flaming comet, but hampered by the friction of so many fountains, his motorcycle’s front tire struck the waiting ramp at a terrible angle. Gus’s flaming form tumbled through the air as his motorcycle exploded around him, its pieces clattering across the landing zone.
Mr. Moon broke out of his trance and shouted towards his technicians. “Don’t worry about the burns and the bones! There’s nothing we can do about those injuries! Get that helmet off! Get into that skull and get to that memory!”
Mr. Moon’s responders, his technicians and his medics, extinguished the flames with trained efficiency. Mr. Moon’s stunt crew was the best. Mr. Moon hired only those most skilled in the harvesting of memory. They cut the clothes from Gus’s smoldering body. They pulled the black helmet, with the charred logo of a moon, from the clone’s head. Before Gus’s body could cool, they bore into that stunt clone’s brain. The large coolers were ready and frosty as they carefully set the pink matter upon ice.
Mr. Moon panted as he jogged across the four-hundred and thirty feet of that divide. “What did we get?”
One of the technicians raised his head from the grizzly work of harvesting memory from a failed stuntman. “The brain matter looks good enough, Mr. Moon. We’ll pull something out if anyone can. We’ll find something.”
Mr. Moon set his hands upon his thighs and gasped to catch his breath. “At least there’ll be something.”
* * * * *
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