The Disciple, page 6
John remembered his neck pain after leaving the temple. He probed the back of his neck, methodically applying deep pressure until he found a lump with a slight resistance in the middle. He recalled reading about a joint experimental program between the military and GAIa in which a chip constructed from human tissue was embedded into soldiers at the base of the spine. Over time, the chip was able to integrate with the synapses of the human brain. Soldiers could then be effectively programmed and centrally controlled by military commanders, combining the creativity and experience of fighting men with the central control and rapid response of robotic soldiers. In addition, soldiers would not be able to remember their actions on the battlefield and had significantly lower risk of PTSD. The program was terminated when a whistle blower at GAIa raised ethical concerns, resulting in a large-scale investigation and numerous news articles about the technology.
John pulled up the news archive and read everything published about the program. Sleep studies measuring unconscious brain activity were required for at least two weeks before the chips were installed. My God, he thought, it all made sense. They had been monitoring his brain activity at the temple while he slept, installing the chip before he returned to the lab. But what had they programmed him to do? Whatever it was, he could not escape the feeling that he now represented a very real risk to the lab, his colleagues, and HB-FLS-1.
John decided to take another leave of absence and have the chip removed by a private doctor on the surface. It would raise red flags since his recent return, but he was confident that Dr. Friedmann would understand and facilitate the trip. If he admitted the truth about his time at the temple or the embedded device, he had no doubt he would be permanently banned from the site.
He visited Dr. Friedmann in his office later that day to discuss taking leave.
“Are you sure everything’s all right, John?” Dr. Friedmann asked, a note of real concern in his voice.
“Yes, I just ...” John stated, then paused. “You know about my medical history and that I’m on several medications to control the symptoms, particularly the auditory hallucinations.”
“Yes,” Dr. Friedmann replied thoughtfully.
“I’ve been having difficulty balancing the side effects of the medications with my workload. I’ve been suffering from headaches and a lack of concentration.”
“You have been pushing yourself too hard, John,” Dr. Friedmann said. “A project like this requires pacing yourself. You need time for rest, exercise, and social activities.”
“I know,” John replied genuinely. “I stopped seeing my psychiatrist, or rather she stopped seeing me, and I really need to find someone to help me adjust my prescriptions.”
“As you know, there’s only room on the monthly shuttle for two people,” Dr. Friedmann said. “It would mean another emergency call.”
“I know,” John replied, “and I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” replied Dr. Friedmann. “I’m glad you came to me, and I want to get you the help you need. Would you be willing to remain in the station for at least another month? I’ll arrange virtual meetings with another psychiatrist. Dr. Liu and I will reduce your workload in the short term. But I want you to promise me that you’ll take care of yourself, meaning regular sleep, exercise, and participating in social activities. If, after another month, you still feel the need to return to the surface, that can be arranged.”
“All right, I’ll try,” John replied, “and thanks.” He returned to his office disheartened. How could he refuse such a generous offer?
“Blasphemer!” the voice shook him with its intensity.
He returned to his quarters and lay on the bed, rubbing his temples.
“Liar!” his mother’s voice spat at him. “You invited Satan into our house.”
John theorized that the implant in his brain was liberating his subconscious while he was awake, increasing his auditory hallucinations. The GAIa chip connected directly to his unconscious mind and bypassed his conscious control or even his conscious awareness of its influence.
John lay in bed, eyes closed, concentrating on his breathing. He wished he had learned to meditate properly. Every time he tried, he felt itchy and uncomfortable. He thought back to the time he had spent with Colton as a child, sitting and listening to the sounds of the forest. He remembered how Colton could calm him with a single touch from his large hand. He imagined Colton’s hand on his shoulder and tried to remember the sounds of the forest.
“We must be prepared to sacrifice everything for Our Lord.” Ginny’s voice spoke softly in his ears.
He tried to recall if he had seen Ginny when he entered Grace Cathedral, or if she had slipped in after him. She must have followed him from Dr. Siqueland’s office. He had been such an easy target.
John awoke twelve hours later with no memory of where he had been. Terrified of what he could have done, he rose and rushed to the medical supply room. He grabbed some numbing cream, a scalpel, a package of large gauze bandages, and a roll of medical tape. Using the gauze, he smeared the numbing cream along the back of his neck and sat, waiting for it to take effect. When he could not feel anything as he poked and prodded at the base of his neck, he picked up the scalpel, but as he tried to lift his arm, it would not move, as if it was paralyzed. He struggled against his own body. He shook, concentrating on trying to force his muscles to move. But it was no use. The scalpel fell uselessly to the ground. He was no longer in control of his mind.
“Blasphemer!”
John picked up the scalpel and put it back on the shelf.
“John Haggerty, you have been called by Our Lord.” Her Holiness spoke to him.
John fell to his knees and blacked out. He awakened once more in his bed the next day. He had to know what he was doing, what they were making him do. John walked to his office and grabbed one of the small cameras used to record HB-FLS-1. It was compact, waterproof, and could record several days of video before running out of battery. They were so useful, the researchers often wore them around their arms so they wouldn’t have to run back to the lab if they needed one on the spot.
John immediately cut off the thought. He forced his mind to think of something else. He had to hide the idea from his own subconscious. He looked around the office, his eyes settling on an unused power cord. Holding it by the end, he whipped it over his shoulder, like a flagellant. His back screamed in pain as the cord slapped his skin. Yes, he thought. The pain would focus his mind on the present. He whipped himself over and over. When he thought he was on the verge of passing out, he turned on the camera, wrapped it around his arm, and fainted.
He awoke from the dream of his father on Mars, the one he had been having since college. John lay in bed, rubbing his eyes. He reached for his arm and felt the video camera. He rose quickly and made his way to his office.
He pulled the camera off his arm, but when he tried to plug it into his workstation, his hand froze, quivered, and hung in the air. John picked up the power cable and whipped himself mercilessly on the back. He focused his mind on the pain. Straining, he managed to plug in the video camera and transferred the file to his private directory. He whipped himself whenever he felt the chip about to block his actions. He opened the file, dragging his finger to scan through the timeline until the camera moved out of his office.
“You invited Satan into our house!” his mother screamed at him.
The camera on his arm was pointed at an oblique angle and bounced as he moved. He watched as he made his way through a locked door into a restricted area.
“We must be prepared to sacrifice everything for Our Lord,” Ginny said.
The battery backup. My God, he was doing something to the battery backup.
“Blasphemer!”
John whipped himself violently. He couldn’t see what he was doing with his hands. The camera bounced again. It appeared as if he was climbing down a metal ladder. He could hear the hum of electricity.
Whip!
At the bottom of the ladder was a large room with electrical equipment and two enormous junction boxes. This must be where the power cables entered the facility.
Whip!
What was he doing with his hands? He stayed in the room for a long time, over thirty minutes, but all John could see was the wall and some electrical equipment.
Whip!
The pain was intense. Blood soaked the back of his shirt. He was on the move again in the video, back in his office, and now in the conference room. He heard his voice speaking, giving his daily report. Back to his office and then to his bunk. The video ended. John purged the file. He was planning to destroy the artificial pressure system, crushing everyone and everything instantly.
Whip!
He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t ...
“Blasphemer! You brought Satan into our house!” his mother screamed.
And then he heard the melody. Soft, barely perceptible, but it soothed his mind. She called to him, the song growing in intensity, the words unintelligible. John left his office and walked to the changing room. He pulled on his wet suit and stepped into the airlock. The next thing he knew, he was in the water, swimming toward HB-FLS-1.
I FEEL HER CALLING, singing to me as I swim toward her. The cuts on my back sting in the brine, but my mind is clear, the pain rooting me to the present. The voices subside. A sense of peaceful awareness settles over me. I feel and do not feel the cold. I see and do not see the blue-green shadows in the water. I hear and do not hear my breathing. I am both watching myself swim and swimming. I am both inside of, and outside of, time. Her voice, so pure, so beautiful it hurts my ears with longing.
She reaches for me as my father had reached for me. I hear my father say, “Take my hand, John.”
I remove my diving glove and watch it float silently away.
“I’m coming, papa.”
I reach and stretch, afraid that at any moment, I might fall.
JOHN HAGGERTY EXTENDED his bare hand, touching the tip of the tentacle that hung before him. When he made contact, his body shimmered for an instant and was gone, leaving his empty wet suit floating lifelessly in the water.
THE HAND OF GOD will continue in The Ganymede Anomaly, coming soon...
About the Author
Darin S. Cape is the sound of one-hand clapping.
Shawn Hainsworth, AKA Darin S. Cape, is the founder of SHP Comics. He writes and publishes comic books, writes short stories and screenplays, and is a documentary filmmaker. The Disciple is the first volume of The Hand of God. This story is an expansion of the comic book series, The Killing Machine: Book One of The Hand of God.
Read more at Darin S. Cape’s site.
About the Publisher
SHP Comics is here to bring you innovative and thrilling stories that you won’t find anywhere else! Explore our edgy, imaginative worlds that will thrill and scare you, and might just blow your mind! We’re comics and stories on the edge.
Read more at SHP Comics’s site.
Darin S. Cape, The Disciple
