Chapter 3 - Divine Vessels…
Lester Ferris barely heard the call on his dashboard’s radio for the noise of the rocks pelting against his roof. Eggs and tomatoes splattered against his windshield. Though his car’s armor-proof glass was thick, Lester could still hear the murmured curses of the protestors lining either side of the street.
“What’s your ETA, Registrar Ferris?”
Lester shouted into the small microphones installed in his steering wheel. “I’m pulling up to the warehouse lot now. Send the boys in for me if you don’t hear back within the next hour.”
“Affirmative,” and the radio returned silent, leaving again only the sound of rocks bouncing off of Lester’s windshield.
Lester flashed his black sedan’s emergency lights as he slowly turned into the warehouse lot crowded with protestors waving picket signs. Lester thought the crowd appeared at least relatively calm that morning, for they made room for his cruiser without leaping onto his windshield. Lester had seen those crowds behave far more violently in the nearly eight months after Mr. Moon’s most recent memory of that Gus clone’s failed attempt to jump a motorcycle beyond a four-hundred foot divide hit the memory shops. Lester had witnessed those protestors drag commuters from their cars before rolling the vehicles over and setting them on fire. At least on that morning, as Registrar Ferris slowly guided his cruiser in the warehouse’s large parking lot, the crowd retreated from his car without a single blare of the siren.
Evidently, the Temple of the Risen Moon expected him.
The protestors lost interest in Lester’s arrival as the Registrar parked his vehicle. Silence returned to his car after the last stone had been tossed his direction, and Lester took a deep breath as he readjusted his narrow, pink tie in the rear-view mirror. It had been six months since the bureau demanded all of its Registrars to carry sidearms, and still, Lester’s hand trembled at the thought of reaching into his glove compartment for the snub-nosed gun. He had not thought himself a very brave man on that day he first applied for a position amongst the Registrars, and he did not consider himself a very brave man now. The gun failed to give him any easy courage as he slipped it into the holster hidden within his inner jacket.
“Look on the bright side,” Lester spoke to his reflection, “the temple is the first stop of the day. Everything else will seem easy once I get through this visit.”
The ascension of the Risen Moon still boggled Lester’s mind. He could not understand how, after centuries of dusty theologies, such a revolutionary church could spread like lightning and wildfire across the country. The church’s ideology remained new, its followers were diverse. Yet all of those who counted themselves among the church’s rising numbers shared two things in common. First, every follower of the Risen Moon had experienced the thrilling memory of that failed motorcycle jump attempted by a clone model named Gus; all of them had shared in the vision of an embrace shared with that figure of spinning halos. Second, those of the Risen Moon considered every Gus clone a divine vessel of that figure who would greet them when they too must leap across the divide that separated living from dead. Thus, those clones named Gus, with the wide shoulders and the bronze skin, were to at least be considered as brothers, as at least equals no matter that the State and the Company claimed otherwise with that wicked brand tattooed around each Gus clone’s right eye.
Followers of the Risen Moon were not difficult to spot in the street, for each woman and man of that church took upon their human faces the rings that circled the eyes of the clones. Each follower who worshipped Mr. Moon’s memory tattooed the zeroes, the ones and the hashes around their own right eyes to show their solidarity with the Gus clone models who labored in the street. They viewed the use of the Gus clones as free labor as blasphemy, and so they took to the streets to protest the exploitation of beings they believed closest to the divinity manifested in Mr. Moon’s memory. They shouted for abolition of the memory trade. They shouted that no merchant should possess the liberty to profit by selling a memory humanity’s collective soul craved. They shouted no Company owned the right to profit by creating sacred Gus clones simply to toil in the street. Followers of the Risen Moon challenged the natural hierarchy between man and the clones man created in his image, and they vowed to reshape the world until every Gus clone received the adoration his divine nature deserved.
“Sitting in your car’s not going to do you any good,” Lester took a final, long breath, “For whatever reason, the temple agreed to open its doors to you, Lester. Someone’s got to do this. It’s not like you’re going in there unarmed.”
Lester cringed at the noise as he threw shut his car’s armored door. Yet no faces peeked upon him from the warehouse’s second and third story windows. Lester looked at the warehouse, with giant, white letters painted across the brick advertising a local brand of beer lost for almost a century in time, and thought a dilapidated warehouse to be an odd home for a temple. There were no stained-glass windows. No marquee of plastic letters announced the Second Coming in a front lawn. No steeple rose from the roof’s apex. It was only a warehouse, a building as old and decrepit as those surrounding it, a strange place Lester thought to serve as the wellspring of possibly mankind’s next religion.
Lester smirked as he looked upon the white, crescent moon the church followers had painted on the warehouse’s entrance to mark the aged building as their new temple. The irony was not lost upon the Registrar.
“They’ve stolen your logo, Mr. Moon. They’ve adopted your marketing brand and installed it as one of their icons,” Lester snorted beneath his breath. “The thought of it must make you choke.”
The expansion of the Risen Moon felt creepier and creepier the more Lester reminisced about the day he had watched that stunt clone Gus attempt, and fail, to leap across the divide. Mr. Moon had been so happy when his technicians had told him that the pink matter they had harvested from that clone’s still smoldering corpse would likely hold enough wisp of memory to salvage that failed stunt’s investment. Mr. Moon’s expectations could not have dreamed of the wealth that flaming crash would bring to him once that memory hit the market. No one could’ve imagined how that memory would so quickly threaten to reshape their world.
Lester pushed through that door painted with the crescent moon and strode as quietly into the temple as a Registrar might.
“We gather to witness another soul taste of that wonderful and sweet memory! We gather to witness another soul accept that offered embrace, and so leap across that great divide! We gather to share such reunion before our gathering of divine vessels!”
Lester held his breath as he listened to the booming voice echo off of the warehouse’s walls. The congregation had done their best to decorate the hard surfaces of so much brick. Home-stitched tapestries of crescent moons drifted from the bare rafters. Posters painted with childish representations of women and men with halos around their heads curled upon the walls. Though the benches and pews scavenged to fill that space were mismatched, each had been polished so that they glistened beneath the harsh, industrial lighting. No giant pipe organ chimed from overhead, but a small, digital music player’s speakers floated a pleasant enough melody into the air. The icons thus gathered in the warehouse remained simple, but Lester imagined that it might not be long until silver and gold covered much of that brick.
“Today we welcome Erik Thurston into our temple! We promise you, Mr. Thurston, before our divine vessels that death will not lead to dark! We promise you that the Maker waits for you on the other side, His arms open to embrace you! We gather so that we might share the lesson of that memory with you!”
Worshippers dressed in their formal best so filled the benches and pews that many were forced to stand against the walls. Lester ducked into a shadowed corner, thankful that no one appeared to notice his entrance as the ceremony progressed.
“Promise to devote yourself, Mr. Thurston, to spreading our divine vessels throughout the wilderness! Join us in this grand endeavor! Bring light to this dark worl
d!”
The priest stood before the congregation, dressed in a simple suit unadorned with jewels or vestments. Perhaps Lester’s distant, corner view softened the priest’s features to tempt unwarranted conclusions, but Lester had the sense he had seen the priest before.
“Do you, Erik Thurston, accept the memory of the Risen Moon? Will you regard these divine vessels standing behind me as your brothers? Will you also accept the mark that brandishes their faces?”
Eleven Gus clones, all identical, stood behind the priest, each one smiling a dull, vapid smile. A band of silver and gold set upon the forehead of each Gus clone. All eleven of those duplicate beings were dressed in the same, prim suit. All wore the same, black tie. All bore the twin bands of the clone mark around their right eye.
Regardless of the poor decorations covering the walls, those who gathered to pray to a broken, stunt-artist’s memory possessed deep coffers to afford such a number of clones. Those worshippers chose to invest their wealth in the clones their divine memory showed them to be the Maker’s avatars. Lester doubted any of those clones who so smiled at the figure of Mr. Thurston kneeling before them understood the gesture’s significance. Lester doubted any of those clones felt any glory whatsoever, no matter that everyone crowded in that warehouse worshipped them.
“I promise to sacrifice so that the divine vessels might multiply and spread into the dark!” Erik Thurston shouted above the congregation’s applause. “I promise to accept the brands of my brother clones upon my face!”
The crowd shifted, and Lester gazed down the aisle upon the sensory-deprivation tank installed within the warehouse. Its opulence stole Lester’s breath. The tank shimmered in the warehouse’s harsh lighting, its sides gilded in gold. Scavenged constellations of jewels - rubies and amethysts, opals and diamonds, sapphires and garnets - circled the tank’s girth. Erik Thurston gripped the ivory handle of the tank’s hatch and stepped into its dark as the congregation raised their arms to embrace invisible ghosts. The tank hummed as the Gus clones did not fidget a moment in their stance. The lights wavered, and Lester recognized the toll the tank’s operation placed on the warehouse’s old electrical systems. The small digital player ceased its melody, and the chamber turned quiet as those in the aisles maintained their phantom embraces and waited for Erik Thurston to return from the dark chamber.
After many minutes, the ivory handle shifted, and Erik Thurston, his clothes and hair drenched from his float in the inner water, stepped out of the tank, his face beaming with its smile, his arms raised forward in anticipate of another unseen embrace.
“Mr. Thurston reaches towards the Maker!” The priest droned.
The congregation rushed forward to greet Erik Thurston. They hugged his wet face close to their own. They squeezed his arms. They clung to his legs. They wailed and sang for the addition of a new brother to their order. Lester’s attention turned away from Erik Thurston at the heart of that crowd and instead drifted to those eleven clones who passively stood behind the priest. None of their expressions had changed. They likely had not even blinked. Lester snorted. Those of the Risen Moon had the natural order of all things wrong. Did any of them expect any clone named Gus to show the faintest wisp of joy?
“I saw her in the memory,” Erik Thurston stammered as one church member after another embraced him. “I saw my Carol. She doesn’t look a day older since that moment I met her at the old ballroom. She’s waiting for me across the divide. She held me. She told me that everything was going to be fine.”
The priest waited until everyone else had their opportunity to hug Erik Thurston before he too embraced the church’s newest member. “It’s wonderful to call you brother. I’ve sure you’ll help our church collect many more divine vessels.”
Lester saw that none of the expressions on the eleven clone faces changed at all.
Suddenly, the priest pointed towards Lester’s dark corner. “The day blesses us with a visitor.”
Lester flinched as the worshippers faced him. His heart raced. His thoughts drifted to the snub-nosed gun hidden within his jacket. He forced himself to stand as still as those eleven clones behind the priest, forced his face to remain as emotionless.
“None other than the Registrar in the pink tie,” the priest grinned. “A man whose very eyes witnessed that grand jump across the divide before any of us even tasted the memory. The Maker honors us.”
A follower appeared at each of Lester’s sides, one offering a styrofoam cup of coffee, the other a chocolate doughnut. Many in the pews clapped as they saw him. A few reached out towards him to touch at the hem of his sleeves. No one glared at him. No one cursed him. None threw stones. Something in the kindness further terrified him.
The priest grasped Lester’s hand before the Registar could think to pull it away. “You probably don’t remember me, but I remember you. You’re the Registrar in the pink tie. You were there when the motorcycle leaped across the divide.”
Lester pulled at the knot of his tie. “Is that why you requested that it be me who conducts the routine check on those clones and on that tank?”
The priest laughed. “Oh, I don’t think it matters what Registrar was sent to conduct that check. We have no illusion that you won’t find something wrong with our paperwork and our titles, that you won’t find some reason to start the process of closing our church door.”
“Then why request me?”
“Perhaps you should first conduct your scans, Registrar Ferris.”
None in the church crowded Lester as he strode to those eleven clones, none of whom so much as winked as the Registrar opened his dark suitcase and unpacked his scanners and his tools. Lester beamed his scanner’s blue light upon the rings circling those eleven clones’ right eyes. Every strand of zeros and ones matched with the proper title of ownership. The papers for each clone appeared in perfect and proper order. The church had not missed a single check-up from the Company or from the State. Everything was in order, and Lester frowned as he stretched to think of something that might deserve a citation, of any excuse that might lead the Registrar Bureau to start the legal action needed in order to close that church’s doors.
“They’re the real deal, Registrar Ferris,” the priest winked. “No need to look so vexed. We’ll save you the strain of trying to find something amiss regarding how a church as new and as simple as our own could collect eleven Gus clones.”
“I’m not hoping to find anything.”
The priest smiled softly. “You’re here to find some reason to shut our doors. You’re here to find an excuse to push us from this warehouse, and so help clear the streets of our brothers and sisters protesting in the street. We hold back the work on the city’s new streets. We congest traffic. We demand that those Gus brothers are not exploited for their labor. You’re hoping for a reason to begin quieting our discord.”
“I still don’t understand why you asked for me?” Lester packed his scanners and tools back into his briefcase. “Why open your door to me at all?”
“Have you not seen the memory for yourself, Registrar Ferris?” The priest frowned. “I hate to think you’ve not tasted that memory at least once, to see a glimpse of your pink tie standing in the crowd, gaping at that Gus leaping through the divide’s flames. It would do you well to taste that memory, to know that she’s waiting on the other side for you.”
Lester’s heart raced. “What does that mean?”
“Only that you must miss her terribly.”
Lester glared at the priest. “What do you know about her? How did you learn about her? How did you learn so much about a Registrar?”
“It’s not important how,” replied the priest. “It’s only that we want to invite you into our church. We only want to embrace you, to witness you taste from the memory. We simply don’t want you, of all people, to suffer. We know how much you miss Marlene.”
Lester dropped his briefcase, and it landed on the concrete, warehouse floor with a thud.
“We know you wear the pink
tie to remember her.”
“Don’t you dare say that name again,” Lester hissed. “Don’t you dare say another word.”
The priest attempted to rest a soft hand on the Registrar’s shoulder, but Lester stepped too quickly away from it. “Relax, Registrar Ferris. All of us care for you. That’s the wonderful thing about the memory. It puts things into perspective. It reminds us that we are not alone.”
“I’ll confiscate those clones,” Lester stammered. “I’ll say you attempted to conceal the brands.”
“We don’t mean any offense,” responded the priest. “Only think of us. Know we’re here. We’re all willing to stop our protests. We’ll retreat from the streets of our own accord. Only know that the temple will be here for you, like you were there on the day our memory was created.”
Lester squinted at the priest and finally pulled the proper memory from his mind. The priest had been the man who once barged upon a memory shop’s inspection. He had been the man who was given the premature knowledge of a new memory’s delivery. Lester should not have allowed that memory shop to share that memory following such an infraction. Now, that priest wore the clones’ tattooed rings around his right eyes. Now the priest and those who attended his church sought to disturb the natural order of man and clone. Lester had been too forgiving. By failing in his duty, such a church had flourished.
Lester stared at the priest. “I know who you are.”
“And are the rings that circle my right eye so ugly that you turn so pale?” replied the priest. “Do the faces of all of my parishioners look so terrible with that brand?”
Lester clutched his briefcase and stomped away from the priest and those eleven clones, whose expressions remained as blank as they had the moment the Registrar dressed in the pink tie had stepped into the church. None in the congregation made any effort to slow Lester as he fled out of the warehouse. None offered him another cup of coffee. None offered another doughnut.
Outside, the protestors and their pickets signs had disappeared. No one lingered near Lester’s vehicle to throw stones at the windshield. The streets felt quiet, though crews of Gus clones again worked so diligently with their jackhammers and their sledges now that the protestors retreated from their work zones.
Lester roared his car back onto the highway and hated himself for ever allowing that memory shop to let Digger Newman to be the first to taste Mr. Moon’s memory that set the city on fire. Lester wished Digger Newman and all the others who tattooed the clones’ brand upon the human flesh of their faces would’ve put up more resistance. He did not think combat with such a church would have frightened him as much as the Risen Moon’s familiarity with him had.
Though he had done his job more effectively than he or the bureau might have hoped, Lester’s success made him feel exposed and weak. He missed Marlene more than ever before. He had never felt so alone.
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Mr. Moon's Daredevil Messiahs Page 3