by John W. Steele
Table of Contents|
parts: 1, 2, 3
In a gentle voice she said, “Before the day of blood atonement, your father stole you away. He delivered you along with a hefty endowment to the ‘Little Sisters of the Poor’ with the stipulation that you were not to be abused in any way. You were raised by the Catholic missionaries until you ran away at sixteen years of age. They were the guardians that developed your personal history according to Vernon’s design. Do you remember any of this?”
Her question struck me as being obtuse. “How do you forget something like that? I knew most of what they told me was a lie, but I had little evidence to prove otherwise. I remember much of what happened in that place. I felt fortunate nobody ever really messed with me; not like some of the other kids.
“But I don’t remember Vernon, not a picture of Vernon, not a bullshit birthday card, or even a new pair of shoes at Christmas. He abandoned me in that dungeon, and I’m glad to be rid of him. And by the way, I don’t believe a word they told me about my mother, either.”
That old blanket of numbness spread over my mind. I pulled the cover over my head and prepared for my beating. “Why did the son of a bitch rescue me?” I asked.
Julia lowered her gaze. “You’re the one he chose. Perhaps he wanted out; perhaps he had a flicker of Light he’d not been able to extinguish? Before we go any further, I want you to know that I’m one of Vernon’s lovers... and there were many, but I’m not in any way related to your mother.”
“What really happened to her, Julia? I need to know.”
She swallowed hard. “Those of your design can’t understand, but things that appear grotesque to source players are common in our reality, Wilson. I’ll tell you straight up, but remember, you asked. Your mother was sacrificed. She didn’t die in a plane crash as you were programmed to believe.”
I felt an urge to do something dramatic like pound the table or slap the vixen across her face. But after decades of meditation, it seemed my chakras had dried up and withered away. I didn’t feel anger; I didn’t feel shock; I didn’t feel anything. It was just another kick in the stones. “My story is a book of empty pages, Julia. It has no plot and it has no mercy. There’s nothing left in me to destroy. I always knew I was different, but I couldn’t understand why.”
A thoughtful expression formed in the exquisite contours of her face. “I might have underestimated you, Wilson. Maybe you’re not the cretin I thought you were. Most of your ilk has the emotional maturity of a five-year old. Here’s what you need to understand, my love. We children of the matrix are all programmed scripts; we can’t exist outside the illusion and its astral realms — but you’re different.
“Your mother was a sovereign being. Only a female source player can give birth to a sovereign being. You contain centers of consciousness that are present in the smallest minority of humanity. Your mind can be controlled by your will; ours cannot. We’re all locked in the matrix, Wilson, but you’re not part of it.”
“How can I not be part of it?”
Julia took my hand. “Come with me.”
We walked to the far wall and stood near the magnetrons. A panel at the side of the monitors slid open and an ominous figure emerged. He walked awkwardly toward us in a limping gait and then froze like some kind of morbid automaton that had defected from a different dimension.
“Wilson, I’d like you to meet Dr. Vrill.”
The ghoulish monstrosity stepped closer and smiled. His teeth were made of gold, and his eyes looked like they were painted on. Vrill was a tall scarecrow of a man with a magnificent mane of snow-white hair that ended in a perfect “V” at the center of his forehead. He crossed his hands one over the other and held them over his lab coat at his chest. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Vangorder. We have awaited your presence for a long time.”
A tingle of cold energy surged down my spine. “I don’t know about this, Julia. Something doesn’t feel right.”
She stepped closer, looked deep into my eyes, and rubbed my arms gently. “Don’t run until you know for certain that you’re being chased, Wilson. I have more to show you that will be very comforting for you to know.”
I studied the intricacies of her features and the wicked curves of her figure. How could I say no?
She turned her head and said, “Dr. Vrill, bring forth the replicant.”
The scientist limped to the computers and twisted a dial. A table emerged from the bore of the square magnet and on it lay what appeared to be a cadaver draped in a shroud.
Julia walked to the table and gently removed the wrap. Beneath it lay a man perhaps in late middle age. Save for a loin covering, he was naked. His face was angular and held a smug and arrogant expression. The body was long, lean and tanned. Its muscle tone was that of an athlete like a swimmer or a martial artist, and the abs were cut and well defined. It had no hair anywhere that I could see except on the skull, where a thick blond mantle flared like the mane of an alpha lion.
She caressed the man’s face gently with her fingertips and said, “This is Vernon. Well, I mean, it’s the latest upgrade of Vernon. Isn’t he beautiful? Clones really don’t age. We just burn out like a microwave oven or a computer with a corrupted operating system. I had my last upgrade about thirty years ago. I have the same personality, character, memories and emotional profile. I enjoy the same pleasures and preferences as before, but my senses have been magnified, and it’s like I’ve stepped into a heightened level of awareness. Have you ever experienced psilocybin mushrooms, Wilson? That’s the kind of mental clarity I’m talking about. Vernon and I have been redesigned to live another five hundred years, and we’ll never age a day.”
I stared at the creature as if he were the Cardiff Giant, just as hard and just as cold. “How can you love this man?” I asked.
“You have the frequency signature,” she whispered.
Julia approached me and stared with predatory bird-like eyes. We shared a long sustained look. “I need to be blunt with you, Wilson. Is your existence worth the trouble? What I see is a man that’s known nothing but suffering and hardship his entire life. Can you even conceive of a life without struggle and pain? How do you stand it?”
“One day at a time,” I replied with sage-like repose.
“How can you be so dense, Wilson? You can’t even conceive of a life of comfort and security can you? If you were to experience what it’s like to live without misery and despair, you’d abandon your reality like a priest fleeing a whorehouse.
“In our world it doesn’t matter who or where you are. You’re always at your best. It makes no difference what you say or do. Mind and body are in agreement. A super-being has no faculty of conscience from which guilt and remorse can arise and impair volition. Once released from the shackles of subjective morality, you are free to enjoy the body and the ego the way they were meant to be enjoyed. I can do this for you, Wilson. I want to do this for you.”
She lowered her hand and fondled me gently in that place that has no conscience. “We’ll start with your libido and progress through the intricacies of carnal desire. I’ll show you why the chakras were created and the secret rapture in their design. All you need to do is abandon your cherished opinions of what is good and what is evil, and our world can be yours.”
The kundalini fire awakened from the ashes, and I shuddered. “And how will you accomplish that?”
“We have the power to transfer your unique electromagnetic frequency, Wilson. We can remove your spiritual essence from the decaying sack of meat where it now resides and transfer it to the body of the Olympian ideal that lies before you. It’s called soul transmigration, and Dr. Vrill and his staff have developed this science to an art form. Close your eyes and visualize what we’re offering.
“We’ll grant you a perfect body that will never feel pain or know disease, a body of superior endurance and virility. We will add centuries to your life, a life of majesty and fulfillment. Before you exists the possibility to be born again into a three-dimensional reality so wondrous you can scarcely imagine the grandeur that awaits you. Does it really make any difference where your perceptions and emotions reside? Why cling to an aging shell leaking pus, dung, and urine when you can live as a god?”
I’d read about soul transmigration in the ancient Vedas. I felt certain it was possible, but there was a problem, and I blurted out, “My electromagnetic frequencies are incompatible with AI robots and programmed entities. How can you perform a miracle of such inconceivable complexity?”
“Doctor Vrill is more qualified to answer this question,” Julia said. She turned, and I watched her walk back into the parlor.
The necromancer limped forth and gazed at me like some lascivious pederast hypnotized by the victim of its desire. “Lord Vangorder, you need to understand that your frequency was toxic to the original Vernon because the forces involved would simply repel each other. But we have overcome that obstacle with the latest advancements in genetic engineering.
“I have discovered a way to insulate the neurons in a field of quantum lithium ions administered through chelation therapy. We can now fortify the myelin sheath to withstand the hyperactive energies associated with high octave beings. The clone before us contains these advanced neurogenic pathways.
“Once the procedure is completed, you will rise to the equivalent of Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, knowing both good and evil and the cunning inherent in both. Armed with this superior intelligence, you will have the wisdom to defeat all men and gods within the matrix construct.”
It was hard to fathom what Vrill said. I looked down at the floor in an attempt to assimilate his ideas. My lack of attention seemed to annoy him. He stepped forth, grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me hard. His face turned the color of strawberries and spittle projected from his mouth when he spoke. “Look at me, man! Your genetic signature is a perfect match to the biological specimen I’ve created. The life energy you hold is the force that will animate this avatar with the crown of awareness. Until now, this vision was impossible, but my genius has made this science a reality!”
The doctor turned and gazed at the replicant. A faraway expression formed on his face. He opened his arms and cried, “When the Nobel Prize in Medicine is granted for my discovery, you will stand at my side, and the world will shower us with glory. And when I am at last recognized as the pre-eminent geneticist on the planet, I will create a new species of bipedal animal, a creature of such superior design that all sentient humanity will be rendered obsolete.” Vrill clenched his fist and shook it before him. “And we will tread asunder any and all beings that oppose us!”
The psychopath had revealed his vision, and I knew what I had to do. “So let me get this straight. You want to transfer my awareness into the clone of my dead father and resurrect it with my spiritual energy. Is that the plan?”
“Precisely, Wilson. I’ll shift your frequency to a superior container, and the risk to you is nonexistent.”
“How many times have you performed this procedure?“
Julia stepped between us and fixed me in a seductive gaze. “Wilson, how long will you rationalize about the gift of majesty we want to give you?” She came closer and laced her fingers behind my neck. Her breath smelled sweet like apricots. “You have a choice, Wilson. You can return to your squalid singlewide trailer home, where you will end your days in penniless obscurity. They probably won’t even know you’re dead until the stench of your rotting corpse wafts out into the trailer park. But by then you’ll be little more than a maggot-infested sack of meat without enough money to afford cremation. Or you can live a life of splendor and luxury with me.”
She ran her hands slowly down my chest then slipped away. Julia loosed the strap of her robe and the silk slid to the floor like ripples in a fountain. The vision of her naked frame slammed into my skull with an intensity like the photons of an arc welder. “Whenever you want, as much as you want, any way you want it,” she said. She licked her lips and smiled.
I looked her over slowly from her perfect pedicure to the lustrous mop of her sable mane and everything luscious in between. I knew she was corrupted inside but, outside, she was the essence of perfection.
“And the book?” I asked.
Her countenance dimmed. “Vernon has an archive of ancient and occult manuscripts. If you join us, they all belong to you,” she said dryly.
“What do I have to do?” I asked.
There was silence. A thin smile formed in her features. “In our family if we choose to accept an outsider, a contract is required. You will state in writing that what you are about to offer is a decision based on your own free will and that you have not been coerced or intimidated in any way. We have prepared a form for you to use as a template. State your intentions in your own words at the bottom. When you have completed the document, sign it, date it, and provide us with your Social Security number. Follow me, honey.”
We returned to the library table. The manuscript lay on top of a wrinkled parchment and, near it, sat a magnificent silver box with a gold lockset and hinges. At the edge of the board stood an elegant ruby chalice, and I thought perhaps we’d seal the pact with a toast.
With lightning agility, she grabbed my wrist and ran a blade across the palm of my hand. Before a drop of blood spilled to the floor, she placed the goblet below the wound while my blood drained into it. When satisfied, she slid the chalice onto the table and wrapped my hand in soothing gauze. She handed me a quill. “The agreement must be written in blood. After you’ve signed the contract, the book belongs to you, honey.”
Copyright © 2020 by John W. Steele