hostile, predatory, like a phalanx of cats creeping toward an aviary.
It was well past midnight when my twin stumbled into the cottage, a ragged smile wandering across his face. His arms clutched the evidence for special creation. Liquor sweetened his breath and seeped through his brain.
âI reached them!â he said, fighting to keep his words from melting together. Lovingly he returned the evidence to its crate. âThey listened! Asked questions! Understood! Rationality is a miraculous thing, Piers!â
Â
22 J ULY 2059
Â
My sweaty fingers suck at the computer keys . . .
The mob appeared at dawn, two dozen androids wearing black sheets and leather masks. Hauling Marcus from his bed, they dragged him kicking and cursing to the orchard. I begged them to take me instead. A rope appeared. The tree to which they attached him looked like the inverted talon of a gigantic vulture.
Mistress Vetch splashed gasoline across my little brotherâs shivering form. Someone struck a match. A hooded android with an empty magnesium pipe jutting from his mouth made the X-gesture and read aloud Public Act Volume 37, Statute Number 31428, in its entirety. Marcus began shouting about the blueprint record. As the flames enclosed him, his screams ripped through the darkness and into my spinal cord. I rushed forward through the smoke-borne stench, amid a noise suggestive of jackboots stomping on rotten fruit; such is the sound of exploding organs.
What remained after an hourâa bag of wet, fleshy rubble that would never become Archbishop of Geophysicsâdid not invite burial, merely disposal.
Â
30 J ULY 2059
Â
The natural state of the universe is darkness.
Â
3 A UGUST 2059
Â
I entered Advanced Truth several minutes late, my briefcase swinging at the end of my arm like the bob of a pendulum. The assembled students were hushed, respectful.
Mr. Valentinus leaned forward. Mr. Callistus looked curious. Miss Basilides seemed eager to learn.
If thereâs one thing I love, itâs teaching.
I opened the briefcase, spread the contents across the desk. My bloodshot eyes sought out Miss Blandina. We exchanged smiles.
âToday,â I said, âweâll be looking at some blueprints . . .â
The Assemblage of Kristin
W ELCOME TO the Kristin Alcott Society. No, that is premature. Congratulations on your nomination to the Kristin Alcott Society. Naturally we hope that you intend to join us. In the event of doubt, this rare and forbidden document should prove salutary.
To the outside world, it is inexplicable that a man who hates water would sacrifice a week of his summer vacation attempting to swim, that a woman who detests contemporary music would pass the same vacation week listening to the entire oeuvre of the rock group Tinkerâs Damn, or thatâmy own caseâa fifth-grade mathematics teacher with a creativity quotient barely equal to his body temperature would squander seven precious days of August sunshine throwing clay pots. But
you
know why we do these things. You know that weâre not out to improve our minds, raise our consciousnesses, or any such glup. We have a covenant with Kristin Alcott, and we intend to keep it.
By recounting the fate of ex-Kristinite Wesley Ransom, I hope to make a difficult decision easier for you. I hope to demonstrate that for every precious privilege of membership in the Kristin Alcott Society, there is an equally precious responsibility.
That particular summer, I was the last to arrive for Kristin Week. Stepping out of my glider, I looked toward the bluff and its solitary house, which Kristin had named Wet Heaven. Gnawed by salt air, lashed by breeze and spray, Wet Heaven occupied an enviable location. Its backyard was a pine barrens. Its front yard was the Atlantic Ocean. My nostrils expanded, eager for the Cape Cod air. The tangy molecules buffered my throat. Waves rolled in, breaking against the rocks with thick hard
It was well past midnight when my twin stumbled into the cottage, a ragged smile wandering across his face. His arms clutched the evidence for special creation. Liquor sweetened his breath and seeped through his brain.
âI reached them!â he said, fighting to keep his words from melting together. Lovingly he returned the evidence to its crate. âThey listened! Asked questions! Understood! Rationality is a miraculous thing, Piers!â
Â
22 J ULY 2059
Â
My sweaty fingers suck at the computer keys . . .
The mob appeared at dawn, two dozen androids wearing black sheets and leather masks. Hauling Marcus from his bed, they dragged him kicking and cursing to the orchard. I begged them to take me instead. A rope appeared. The tree to which they attached him looked like the inverted talon of a gigantic vulture.
Mistress Vetch splashed gasoline across my little brotherâs shivering form. Someone struck a match. A hooded android with an empty magnesium pipe jutting from his mouth made the X-gesture and read aloud Public Act Volume 37, Statute Number 31428, in its entirety. Marcus began shouting about the blueprint record. As the flames enclosed him, his screams ripped through the darkness and into my spinal cord. I rushed forward through the smoke-borne stench, amid a noise suggestive of jackboots stomping on rotten fruit; such is the sound of exploding organs.
What remained after an hourâa bag of wet, fleshy rubble that would never become Archbishop of Geophysicsâdid not invite burial, merely disposal.
Â
30 J ULY 2059
Â
The natural state of the universe is darkness.
Â
3 A UGUST 2059
Â
I entered Advanced Truth several minutes late, my briefcase swinging at the end of my arm like the bob of a pendulum. The assembled students were hushed, respectful.
Mr. Valentinus leaned forward. Mr. Callistus looked curious. Miss Basilides seemed eager to learn.
If thereâs one thing I love, itâs teaching.
I opened the briefcase, spread the contents across the desk. My bloodshot eyes sought out Miss Blandina. We exchanged smiles.
âToday,â I said, âweâll be looking at some blueprints . . .â
The Assemblage of Kristin
W ELCOME TO the Kristin Alcott Society. No, that is premature. Congratulations on your nomination to the Kristin Alcott Society. Naturally we hope that you intend to join us. In the event of doubt, this rare and forbidden document should prove salutary.
To the outside world, it is inexplicable that a man who hates water would sacrifice a week of his summer vacation attempting to swim, that a woman who detests contemporary music would pass the same vacation week listening to the entire oeuvre of the rock group Tinkerâs Damn, or thatâmy own caseâa fifth-grade mathematics teacher with a creativity quotient barely equal to his body temperature would squander seven precious days of August sunshine throwing clay pots. But
you
know why we do these things. You know that weâre not out to improve our minds, raise our consciousnesses, or any such glup. We have a covenant with Kristin Alcott, and we intend to keep it.
By recounting the fate of ex-Kristinite Wesley Ransom, I hope to make a difficult decision easier for you. I hope to demonstrate that for every precious privilege of membership in the Kristin Alcott Society, there is an equally precious responsibility.
That particular summer, I was the last to arrive for Kristin Week. Stepping out of my glider, I looked toward the bluff and its solitary house, which Kristin had named Wet Heaven. Gnawed by salt air, lashed by breeze and spray, Wet Heaven occupied an enviable location. Its backyard was a pine barrens. Its front yard was the Atlantic Ocean. My nostrils expanded, eager for the Cape Cod air. The tangy molecules buffered my throat. Waves rolled in, breaking against the rocks with thick hard
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