by Gregg Vann
I remember the overwhelming pleasure of the act itself, but recall gaining even more satisfaction from the palpable, building fear; the intoxicating smell of sweat and impending violence; the anticipation of bringing death to a living being.
I felt it all intensely. And I loved it.
But I also know that it wasn’t me, it was him. The methodical yet impulsive killer—who despite a private life spent living out sick, violent fantasies, was a famous entertainer, often in the public eye.
And wealthy enough to buy redemption.
It’s not for me to say, in fact, I was constructed to do just the opposite, but I really don’t think Gent deserves to be reborn. He should just stay dead like most of his victims—those who couldn’t afford a new body. But that’s just my opinion. And if they discovered I was even capable of having it, I would be destroyed immediately.
You see, I am a Series 9 Atonement Monk, designed to house the souls of those who’ve transgressed in their former lives—to serve penance for them while their clones grow into new shells, becoming vessels for a better and more pure existence.
My task is to cleanse away their sin through good deeds and restitution. To wipe the slate clean while they’re still dead, before the soul can be transferred into the new body. Then, I will be destroyed, my death cutting the final thread linking the past life to the present.
I am a cyborg. And I am not supposed to be sentient.
But I am.
And I don’t want to die.
Awakening
Whatever karma I create, whether good or evil,
that I shall inherit.
The Buddha
The blackness slowly began to fall away, pierced by tiny fragments of light filtering in through my closed eyelids. I could hear the distant sounds of machinery growing closer, becoming more immediate—a barely audible beeping noise guiding me toward consciousness. The conspicuous scent of antiseptic, filtered air wafted into my nose, adding to the sensory input pushing me to wake.
Abruptly, my mind came alive. Harried and unsure, it raced to fill in a host of missing information.
Where was I? Someplace sterile, I reasoned. A hospital perhaps?
More importantly: Who was I?
With enormous effort I managed to force my eyes open, squinting hard against an oppressive glare. Through the barely open slits I pushed my reluctant vision into focus, taking a cursory glance around the brightly lit room.
I was lying on an operating table with two masked figures leaning over me.
“Can you hear me?” one of them asked.
“Yes,” I replied, my own voice echoing loudly in my head.
“Are you able to sit up?”
“I will try,” I said, blinking my eyes rapidly in an attempt to drive away some of the blurriness and discomfort.
I rose unsteadily, propping myself up on my elbows for a moment before sitting up completely. I slid to the left and draped my legs over the side of the bed.
From a seated position, I was able to get a much better look at my surroundings, and other than the two men wearing medical masks the room was unoccupied—totally empty, in fact, except for the bed I was resting on, and a few chirping medical monitors placed on both sides of it. I noticed that the equipment was highly advanced—the complex machinery sitting in stark contrast to the medieval appearance of the rest of the chamber.
The room had a low, stone ceiling, and its rough block walls had been painted a simple tan color; their otherwise plain façade intermittently broken by what I instinctively recognized as mandalas.
There were eight of them in all, each comprised of concentric circles and intricate swirling patterns, the brilliant lines of color intersecting and branching away from one another with thoughtful, meticulous placement. Hand carved wooden frames bound the works of art, locking them in tightly to preserve the complicated designs. And each was outlined with a large bolt of crimson red silk. The smooth material was draped over the tops of the frames, and then made to flow over the edges until it almost met the floor.
A cough drew my attention back to the two men, and I saw that they were both wearing robes of the same silk fabric. But unlike the brightly colored mandalas, screaming for the eye’s notice, their garments were a muted shade of yellow, decorated with only a few, simple red embellishments. The men were also bald, and looking down, I saw they were wearing sandals.
This was no hospital. And these men were certainly not doctors.
What was going on?
And why don’t I know who I am?
{Decompress-Reset…ACCESS ALL}
And then I remembered. I remembered everything.
“Brother Gent. Are you aware?” one of the men asked.
“I am,” I replied. “What happened to me?”
“You were killed…again.”
“Yes. Irlent 6. I recall… They were beyond reason. Murderous.”
“Indeed,” said the second man. They were both monks, I remembered now. Brothers Dyson and Ryll.
My creators.
“You killed a child,” Brother Dyson said. “She was only 13 when you…” his voice trailed off. “Surely you understand.”
“Of course,” I murmured. “I had hoped to help…to heal. But I don’t think I can go back there now.”
“No. You can’t. They have lodged a formal protest with the Ministry of Law. You have been barred from Irlent 6—in this life, and the next.”
“I understand,” I replied dejectedly. I’d planned to do so much more, to at least apologize for my actions. But they’d attacked as soon as they saw my face. My death had been remarkably swift.
I accessed my internal clock to discover that I’d been offline for nearly three weeks.
“Have they at least accepted recompense?” I asked.
“Yes,” Brother Dyson answered. “As part of a deal giving them amnesty for your destruction. You may not be alive by law, but you are our property, and subject to certain protections. Regardless, your debt to them has been paid.”
I hopped off the table, landing solidly on my feet. They were as bare as the rest of me, and pale…too pale. I remembered being tan. I surveyed my body for damage but found none. How was that possible?
“It’s new,” Brother Ryll said, sensing my confusion. “We were unable to save your original form.”
“And the soul?”
“Unharmed, fortunately; the chamber survived the plasma fire. The Udek arrived within a day of the automatic distress beacon and found it fused to the rock bed at your landing site.” He shook his head and removed the mask covering his face. “It was virtually the only thing left.”
Ryll took another look at the monitors, and then turned to address Brother Dyson. “Everything seems fine.”
The older monk removed his mask as well.
“All is as it was,” Ryll continued. “The blood and soul are integrated, and the mechanical systems are functioning normally.”
“Excellent,” Dyson said. He nodded subtly to Brother Ryll, who then respectfully bowed and left the room.
“Brother Gent,” he began, turning his attention back to me. “If you feel up to it, you may now resume your penance. Your ship is berthed just outside the monastery—fuelled and ready to go. We have also reinstated your banking privileges.”
“I am fully recovered and ready.”
I grabbed a waiting jumpsuit off the foot of the bed and began dressing myself. “According to the cleansing plan, I only have two more tasks to complete. My next appointment was with the Blenej Green. As they are almost a full week’s journey from here, I will depart immediately.”
“As you wish, Brother Gent. The Greens are pacifists, so you should be much safer this time around—just remember your restrictions on spending. Being wealthy doesn’t mean you can divest yourself of everything. He…you will need currency to start your next life.”
“My programing is intact and functioning, Brother Dyson. I know my duties, and my limitations.”
“Of
course.”
It was odd to hear one of the monks refer to me as he—an unusual slip, to be sure. I was deeply programmed for the necessary fiction of being Fallon Gent. How could I repent if I wasn’t truly him?
His real blood—extracted from the growing clone—ran through my mechanical circulatory system. And my body had been sculpted to look exactly like his, right down to the minute scar just under my left cheek. But most importantly, my neural net was wired into his soul—his stored consciousness, really—my actions and memories imprinting themselves onto his mind. When he awoke in his new body, Gent would remember everything I did and felt during the cleansing, just as if he’d experienced it himself.
The only ‘I’ that exists is the non-sentient Operational Matrix that controls this body. And even though I sometimes feel separate—distinct from Gent—my programming assures me that I’m not. I am merely a complex program with a single, temporary purpose.
I am Gent. And it is uncomfortable, painful even, to think of myself as anything other than an extension of the man.
I finished putting on my travel boots and Brother Dyson handed me a black, hooded robe.
“Are you ready, Brother,” he asked.
“I am,” I confirmed, and then I began wrapping the garment around myself as he escorted me out of the small room and into the lavishly decorated monastery.
We walked through room after room of the expansive building, each new chamber more impressive than the last. And along the way, I took note of the many new acquisitions since my last visit to Bodhi Prime. Most were expensive antiquities, whose presence, I was certain, could be directly attributed to the growing wealth of the Order. Their coveted monopoly on consciousness transfer had enabled them to amass an immense fortune, and an even greater amount of power and influence.
Most planets, and individual governments, for that matter, could clone new bodies. But The Order of Buddha’s Light had been the only organization able to perfect a complete consciousness transfer, moving a stable, coherent mental matrix from one body to another. They assigned a profound religious significance to the procedure, referring to it as a spiritual transcendence. But to everyone else in the galaxy, it was simply a medical procedure that promised immortality. However you viewed it, this path to eternal life had given the monks a level of political clout and authority that reached far beyond their home planet of Bodhi Prime.
The small, ostensibly Buddhist order, had long focused on developing an electronic path to enlightenment. And to further this aim, they’d recruited some of the most gifted programmers and scientists in the galaxy, and then tasked them with conducting wide-ranging studies into the nature of the human mind—looking for a way to physically manipulate it, and push it toward greatness.
The monks housed this pool of talent in an extensive industrial complex, complete with state-of-the-art research and medical facilities. The small, purpose-built community was centered far away from the monastery, banished to the other side of the planet. The monks explained the placement as a safety precaution, citing the possible danger should something go wrong in the labs. But most saw the intentional distancing as a not-so-subtle attempt to segregate the science of what they were doing, from the religious impetus that drove it.
For the first few years, there was little progress; the researchers hit the same roadblocks and difficulties as everyone else. But then, slowly, they began to chip away at the old problems—expanding the amount of information that could be copied from the consciousness, and strengthening the connections within their artificially created matrices. Eventually, their relentless search for a technological path to Nirvana—a mechanical avenue to transcendence—paid off. They discovered a way to extract a person’s complete consciousness and store it externally.
The possibilities created by the breakthrough were infinite.
The monks first saw the advancement as a new bridge to enlightenment. The mind, the soul, could be separated from the body. Surely this was shedding attachment in a way the Buddha himself had never imagined! But there was still no way to push the soul forward, to move it through the clouded veil of existence and into Nirvana.
True enlightenment remained as elusive as ever.
Even today, the scientists were working to solve that problem—still trying to devise a method for the final leap.
If it’s even possible.
“Brother Dyson. A word, please.” An acolyte had stepped into our path, moving out from a darkened alcove on the side of the Grand Hall. His robes rustled as he shifted nervously, each hand tucked into the opposing sleeve, and the young monk was gazing at Brother Dyson with the reverence one might show a deity.
“Please, wait here a moment, Brother Gent,” Dyson said.
“Of course,” I replied.
He gave me a quick smile, and then walked off to join the monk. They huddled closely for a private conversation—beyond the range of my hearing, I noticed.
I’d seen the look on the acolyte’s face before; many at the monastery were awestruck by the august monk. Dyson the patriarch. Dyson, the central pillar of the Order. He had been there at the beginning.
In many ways, he was the beginning.
The successful removal of an intact soul created a crisis among the believers. And at this new crossroads in their faith, Brother Dyson put forth an outrageous—some said blasphemous—idea. As an alternative to successive rebirths, continually cleansing the karma until a perfect soul was achieved, why not transfer the soul directly into a new body, with the original consciousness still intact? Instead of starting over in ignorance, we could continue to atone for the transgressions of our past lives. And more importantly, use our accumulated wisdom to avoid committing new misdeeds in the present. In essence, creating a direct path to enlightenment.
The idea caused an uproar, spurring heated debate throughout the religious community. Over time, this spirited dissent devolved into acrimony, and the two opposing sides became entrenched in their opinions. When it became clear that despite the fervent opposition it would be done, a full third of the monks left the monastery to form a new order.
When the turmoil created by the exodus finally subsided, Brother Dyson underwent the first procedure himself. The transference was flawless, and eventually all of the other monks followed suit.
At first, the discovery was kept secret, and only members of the Order underwent transference. But eventually, some of the scientists defected and tried to replicate the procedure for other employers.
None succeeded.
But the secret was out.
It was a dangerous time for the monastery. As word spread that they’d devised a way to live forever, the monks heard rumors of plans to attack Bodhi Prime—to take their secrets and leave the monastery burning. But once again, Brother Dyson stepped to the forefront.
Using transference technology as currency, he negotiated protection treaties with several races. Most notably, the strongest military force in the galaxy—the Udek. He even managed to retain the pretense of religious purpose; for every transference candidate, even the non-human ones, the soul must undergo a karmic cleansing. It was a testament to his abilities as a skilled negotiator that Brother Dyson was able to impose these moral requirements on every potential client.
The Order was saved, but this new path led the monastery even further away from the core precepts on which it had been founded. This change, this adaptation, wasn’t entirely unprecedented, however; the transformation of Buddhism had begun long ago.
For years, it had been infiltrated by Hindu, Jain, even Judeo-Christian concepts—particularly those dealing with redemption, and the primacy of the soul. Now, the monks would dilute it further by putting aside several primary tenets. Most notably, that cleansing the karma comes from within, lasts several lifetimes, and isn’t amenable to shortcuts.
They had already forgotten—perhaps never even known—that for millennia the soul was considered separate from the mind, some even calling it an impediment to enlightenmen
t. Many Buddhists went so far as to dismiss the very idea of a soul, saying there was only one’s mind at work, and only one’s mind that mattered.
Over the course of the next 200 years, the monks of Bodhi Prime distanced themselves further and further away from these basic truths. And during those two centuries the sect underwent a fundamental transformation—changing from a spiritual organization in pursuit of self-betterment, into a business entity providing the service of perpetual life.
Immortality, for those who could afford it.
The monks believed that they were doing the right thing, always bolstering this mindset by determining and requiring the appropriate penance from those undergoing transference. Without exception, everyone was forced to undue their wrongs, to patch up the holes they’d ripped in the fabric of life.
But eventually, even this became subverted when the monks began using cyborgs to perform the cleansing tasks. These half-men, half-machines, developed at the lab complex, were sent out to do penance and disburse restitution—instead of the transference candidates themselves. The real transgressors, the truly guilty, remained blissfully dead.
And that is how I came to exist.
I know this is all true, because during my construction I was programmed with an extensive historical and general reference database, touching on nearly every topic. This information was deemed vital to understanding the people and cultures I would encounter during the cleansing rituals. It was also meant to keep me from further offending anyone through a misguided or uninformed breach of societal norms. But most importantly, it was essential in helping me choose a suitable act of penance for each misdeed.
But an unforeseen, and unintended consequence, was the ability to comprehend historical events at a much deeper level than even those who had lived through them. I understood perfectly just how far the monks had strayed from their roots, and how the Order had grown into something unnatural, disingenuous even.
