Introduction: Part One
Reverend Greymaulkin Stannum
“The universe, in its natural state, is a corpse,” the Reverend began. “It is dark, cold, silent, still… dead. When the human body dies, the hair and fingernails continue to grow. That’s us. All energy, all life as we know it is an irrelevant leftover - A futile and desperate last gasping reach at what once was the norm but can never be sustained.”
His audience of roughly three dozen children and young adults aged 12-20 listened attentively. One of the assembled, a skinny boy no more than 16 with dyed pink hair, raised his hand but spoke without being acknowledged. “But, there’s life everywhere. Earth is teeming with it. How can life not be the norm?”
The Reverend smiled. “Dane, Earth is filled with dying creatures. How can death not be the norm?” The pink haired boy opened his mouth in protest but was silenced by subtle, barely perceptible motorized whir of the raised index finger of the Preacher’s cybernetic right hand. “Is Earth the standard by which you judge the universe? Think you that all of creation is filled with lush green and watery planets, crawling with insects and apes and ferns and felines?
Energy cannot be created or destroyed but it can be spread so thin that it may as well not exist. Stars burn out. Warmth dissipates into coldness. Scattered embers too weak to re-ignite are all we see no matter where we look. Energy cannot be maintained. In the end, it all falls before the might of Entropy.
Our planet is but a single hair folicle, stubbornly churning out life in a mad attempt to prove that God is not dead.”
Dane had always wondered why Reverend Grey didn’t get one of the DeltaGrade prosthetics with realistic flesh. Forcing his gaze away from his teacher’s robo-hand, he asked, “So, does that mean you believe in aliens? If a living planet is to the universe as a hair folicle is to a human body, there’s still a decent number of life sustaining planets out there. And if even a small number of those have intelligent life, there’s still a chance we could meet them, right?”
The Reverend laughed. Dane was smart but very naïve. “Perhaps. But I think Ol’ Man Universe is pretty bald. It would take one heck of a cosmic combover to get our lonely hair of a world to cross paths with another.”
The assemblage laughed politely. Then, slowly, timidly, one girl in the back raised her hand. The Reverend nodded at her, encouraging her to speak her mind. “Is… is God dead?”
The Reverend became very serious. The class grew quiet, sensing blasphemy. “That’s not a valid question to ask an Atheist, Francesca. I believe that God is neither dead nor alive for exactly the same reason that I believe that Santa Claus is neither dead nor alive. For a thing to die, it must first be alive. And for a thing to be alive, it must first exist.”
Dane furrowed his brow in thought. “That means…”
The Reverend smiled encouragingly. “Yes,” he whispered. “Say it.”
Dane continued, “That means the universe used to be alive.”
Reverend Grey clasped his hands together, intertwining the fleshy fingers he was given at birth with the metal and plastic ones he obtained only a few years ago. He couldn’t help smirking a little although he spoke solemnly, a tone of finality in his voice. “Here endeth the lesson.”
They emerged cautiously from the forest, sniffing the air for traces of Man. Their ears were upright and alert. Their muscles were bowstrings – taut and ready to launch them back into the safety of the trees at the first sign of danger. There were three of them – a mother and her two fauns.
It was autumn and the leaves were beginning to flare and drop, taking the weaker branches with them. Discarded branches make excellent deer food. It was getting cold and they needed to eat while they could. Food would be scarce when the snows came.
Momma Deer kept watch while her fauns nibbled from fallen branches and wrestled with each other in the clearing. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down. Man was tricky and dangerous. Being in the open worried her but her babies needed sunshine.
FWIP!
The barbed dart struck home, its poison invading Momma Deer’s blood before she had a chance to react. Suddenly weak, she sagged to the ground, her fauns oblivious in their play.
The machine crafted metal barb was flawless in its design. It worked quickly, quietly and the poison it carried could be countered very easily, so as to not spoil the meat. It didn’t kill. It incapacitated, allowing the hunter to finish the job in whatever fashion took his fancy. Beheading was always Frederick’s favourite. He admired the dichotomy between the elegance of the blowgun and the brutality of the cleaver.
“S’yer turn, boy,” he whispered to his companion. Like Frederick, the boy lying next to him in the grass wore camoflaged clothing and carried a blowgun. Though he had come along on a dozen hunts, this was the first time he’d been allowed a weapon. “Quickly, before they run off.”
Indeed, the fauns had noticed their mother falling to the ground in spasms and were now standing perfectly still, the way they’d been taught, so as to blend into their surroundings. Danger would pass, they believed, if they were silent and still.
They were wrong.
The boy inhaled and then blew out a puff of concentrated malice - FWIP! - sending his perfect poisoned dart directly into the throat of the larger faun. It jumped a bit from the contact but quickly lost control of its muscles and collapsed. The young deer’s sister wised up and ran into the forest, another orphan for Old Man Winter to claim.
Frederick slapped his protégé on the back. “Great job, boy! A perfect shot.” He stood up, motioning for the boy to follow. Pulling his cleaver from its sheath, he made his way over to the two trembling deer.
“There’s enough juice in one of them darts to keep’er legs kicking like that fer hours,” Frederick said, watching Momma Deer futiley paw at the earth. “It’s like her last thought is frozen in her mind, looping like a Tri-Vid advert… ‘Run!’” he chuckled.
The boy’s gaze moved back and forth between the faun and his mother. He was less interested in the desperate kicking and flailing than he was in what looked for all the world like fear in their eyes. Horrible, pleading terrorized fear. He felt that if Momma Deer could talk, she’d be muttering “pleasegodpleasegodplease i’lldoanythinggod pleasedon’tletmediegod pleasegodpleasegodplease” begging the blackness not to come.
But Nich knew, and he felt that somewhere deep down Momma Deer must also know, that the blackness always comes. He looked over at the round dark badge on Frederick’s chest; The black on black letters E.O.E. were barely visible against the anti-sun logo of The Order. Entropy was the only absolute. Every story, no matter how exciting, eventually decayed until only two words were left to say: The end.
“Well, you first.” Frederick proffered the cleaver, handle out.
With the swing of an arm and the thick yet soft sound of steel severing meat and bone, Nicholas Straw, not quite 18, made his first kill. Frederick beamed at his blood splattered protégé. “Everything dies, boy. Here endeth the lesson.”
“I want to apologize for that. It was perhaps cruel and certainly uncalled for. I really didn’t mean to ridicule you like that. We learn by asking questions and I shouldn’t discourage that. I’m sorry, Francesca.” Reverend Grey swiveled in his chair, resting an elbow on his office desk. Francesca sat perched on the edge of the seat, looking like she might bolt for the door any second.
The Preacher continued. “I know you’re new to the City and I appreciate you coming to my sermon. I’d really hate to leave a bad taste in your mouth after your first visit to the Church. You should come back. Maybe bring your family.”
The girl shrugged. She was young, perhaps 13 or 14, but bright. Looking up to meet the Reverend’s eyes for the first time since being called into his office, Francesca Leona took a deep breath, as though steeling herself, reached under her shirt collar and pulled out a silver necklace. Hanging off the chain was a tiny cross. The ancient symbol felt very out of place here in a Church of Atheism. Reverend Grey raised an eyebrow. Before he could say anything, Francesca spoke, her voice low, as if telling a greatly sad secret.
“Gramma would never come here. She hates this place. She’s a Believer.” The word was almost a curse. “She raised me and my sister since we were four years old. We pray to God every night before bed and we say Grace before we eat.”
The Reverend’s eyes were glued to the cross. Actual belief in God, though unpopular in the City and generally frowned upon by most educated folks, was still around. It was dying, though. Faith had been fading with every generation since the War of ’07. It was almost quaint now. Like the old cars that still had CD players in them.
“You and your sister… are you Believers too?” It was hard to believe one so young as Francesca would be so devout as to wear a cross. But then, maybe she did it to appease her grandmother.
Francesca absently reached up and pulled at one of her long red curls. “Yes. Well, we were. I stopped really believing when my sister…” She took a deep breath, fingering her necklace as she spoke. “Cassie went um… crazy. She started breaking things and cutting herself and shouting about God and sin and the importance of being pretty and… I don’t know anymore what I think.”
“Is she… OK?” Reverend Grey stopped himself from asking if she was alive, but knew it would be implied. He sucked in his breath, as though he could take back his question and rephrase it more gently.
“Gramma called the hospital and they came and took her away. I haven’t seen her in two years.” Francesca sniffled. “Gramma keeps saying they’ll bring her back to us when she’s all better. She says God won’t let us be apart but I don’t know if I can believe in God anymore. That’s why I came to your Church this morning. I want to see the other side of things.” Francesca glanced around nervously. “If Gramma knew I was here, she’d probably kick me out of the house.”
The Reverend sighed. “I’m sorry, Francesca. I don’t know what to say. You’re always welcome here, of course. And if you need to talk, I’m always here to listen.”
“Yeah,” Francesca stood up, dropping her cross back under her shirt. “That’s what Pastor Ashland used to say back home. Thanks, Reverend. I’ll probably see you next week.” She turned and headed out the door.
“Is that her?” The young woman squinted at a grainy image of a young girl with curly red hair exiting a church. “Doesn’t look like much.”
“Affirmative, Duplicity,” came the tinny yet cheerful response. “Francesca Leona: age 14. Twin sister Cassandra Leona committed to Arkham Asylum two years ago. Sister’s current whereabouts: unknown.”
Tapping the screen, Duplicity P. March turned to face her robot companion. She spoke thoughtfully and deliberately. “Unknown? She’s… not in the asylum?”
“Negative, Duplicity. Cassandra Leona’s current whereabouts are unknown.” The black and silver robot was humanoid though genderless. It’s voice and appearance were painstakingly calculated to be as inoffensive as possible. Friendly, but not obnoxiously so. It was a VM-0838 model, standard issue on a spaceship like Duplicity’s. Of course, spaceships like Duplicity’s wouldn’t be invented for nearly 250 years. The ‘bot and the ship were connected at the core. It provided both companionship for the pilot and a user-friendly interaction with the ship’s systems.
“And this girl, Francesca…” Duplicity continued. “Does she have the same… gifts that her sister had?”
“Affirmative.” The ‘bot swiveled its head 90 degrees in a smooth fluid motion, fixing the gaze of its single green unblinking optical sensor on a nondescript doorway leading off the bridge. “She should be more than capable of charging the Lazarus Device.”
“Shiny.” Rubbing one hand through her short dark hair, Duplicity flipped a switch beneath the monitor. The vid-feed changed to the tiny camera they’d installed in the priest’s office. A tall dark haired man with glasses sat behind the desk, typing on an old-fashioned desktop computer. “Oracle,” she addressed the ‘bot/ship collective, “The Reverend… Did you find out if… if he is who we think he is?”
“Affirmative, Duplicity,” Oracle replied. “Reverend Greymaulkin Stannum: attended University of Phoenix; obtained dual Master’s Degrees in literature and divinity; joined Esoteric Order of Entropy at age twenty two; left Order and moved from Phoenix to Chicago at age twenty six, minus his right hand; opened a Church of Atheism six months later…”
“That’s enough.” Duplicity waved a hand at the ‘bot, silencing it. “If he has ties to The Order, we should take him with us.” She continued rubbing her hand through her hair. “They’ll catch up with us sooner or later and we’ll need every advantage to keep the Device out of their hands.” She turned again to face the ‘bot, her green eyes sparkling. She spoke decisively now, the caution previously in her voice replaced with conviction. “Continue obverving them both, Oracle. Next Sunday, when they’re together again… we’ll take them.”
“WHAT are you taking?”
“Just fifty, mum. I want to catch a movie with the guys.” Dane swiped his ID through the slot on his mother’s credstick. The holodigits on the ID card ticked up fifty credits, displaying a green ¥73. “I’ll be back by 2, Okay?”
Mrs Hammil staggered out of the bathroom, her face a living contradiction of too much makeup for one so old and too many wrinkles for one so young. Her skimpy dress and Fuck Me™ pumps said all that needed to be said about her plans for the evening. The vacant rage behind her eyes and drunken slurring said all that needed to be said about her activities that afternoon.
She snatched her credstick away from her son. “GIMME that! You’re fucking worthless.” She thumbed the plate, activating her account. “I’m taking your print off this thing. You can get your OWN fucking money from now on, you prick. Yer juzzike yer father. Taking. All the time taking.”
“But mum, it’s the weekend! You said I could go out if I straightened up the place for your date and finished my studies!” Dane protested, trying to calm his mother down. He’d seen her drugged up like this a thousand times but she’d never been quite this cruel.
“JUST GET OUT!” She awkwardly tried to smack him but he was far faster than she. “GET THE FUCK OUT!” she screamed.
Dane backed towards the door, grabbing his coat off the couch. “OK, mum. Don’t be angry. I’ll go. I’ll…” A sudden knock on the door startled Dane.
His mother lurched towards him, shoving him out of the way. “Move, you!” She opened the door, revealing a shifty man in a long green coat and mustache. He smiled as his lascivious eyes roamed up and down Dane’s mother’s body. He glanced over at Dane.
“Whozat, then? The doorman?” He and Mrs Hammil cackled merrily, walking past Dane and into the bedroom, the man’s hand already on her buttocks.
Dane fought back the tears as he raced out of the apartment, not bothering to shut the door. It was 9PM on a Friday night but the movies were now out of the question. Dane wouldn’t be going back home this weekend, perhaps not ever. He didn’t want to deal with people. He just wanted to be alone.
He found a stocking cap in his coat pocket, pulled it down over his pink spiky hair and headed for the church. Reverend Grey would let him stay there for a few nights, Dane was sure of it. The church was open on Friday and Saturday nights, serving as a soup kitchen for the poor. He’d volunteer and help out with that in exchange for a place to stay. He could even help set up Sunday’s sermon if the Reverend wanted.
It was a short bus ride down to that part of town. He hopped off and turned the corner. The Church of Atheism sat hunched in the darkness a few blocks away. The building was very old. It had once been a Believer church, dedicated to God. Dane thought about people assembling there on Sundays, praying that a higher power would come down and take their troubles away.
“Why would you impose on your creator like that?” Dane muttered to himself as he walked. “If there was a God, He’d know better than you what was supposed to happen, right? So what’s the point of prayer?”
He could now see the poor and homeless coming and going through the front door. Believer churches had done this too. Dane supposed that the Church of Atheism wasn’t too terribly different in practice than any other church. The message was different though. “Take care of yourselves and each other. We’re all we’ve got.” Simple enough.
As he entered the building, Dane removed his hat and brushed his fingers roughly through his hair, getting it to stand up again after being imprisoned. I his hurry to find the Reverend, he bumped into a young woman in a mirrorcoat. “Oh! Sorry!” he apologized, looking up and half-smiling lamely.
“Not at all, young man.” She smiled back at him, her green eyes sparkling. She ran a hand through her short dark hair. “Never waste an apology on a harmless accident. Save it for when you’ve really fucked something up.” The woman spoke with a haughtiness and deliberateness that was at once very unnerving and extremely sexy. “See ya.” She turned and walked briskly out the front door. Dane watched his receding reflection on the back of her mirrorcoat. Great. Now he was miserable and horny.