Freedom Club
Authors: Saul Garnell
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Luddites, #Dystopia, #Future
Freedom Club is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Published by Hotspur Publishing
Copyright © 2011 by Saul Garnell
All rights reserved.
www.hotspurpublishing.com
First edition: October 2011
Acknowledgments
I
am grateful to all my friends who read early drafts and gave me their advice: Barbara, Peter, John, Roger, Martin, Gary, Ethan Fode, Sue Cartwright, and Phillip Berrie for their kind help proofreading. Also, many thanks to my good friend Thomas Leo, and special thanks to Christian Mueller, who spent countless hours with me in the smoke filled cafes of downtown Tokyo ranting about philosophy and other topics important to the creation of this book.
Huge gratitude to Chris Lampton for his detailed editing and to Amy Gilbert for her help with the book design. And, as ever, more thanks than I can say to David F. Bischoff for the years he has spent shepherding me as a Science Fiction writer. This would be a much poorer book without all your efforts.
Prelude
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
—Allen Ginsberg
Tsukuba Japan: 2069
Santa Fe Research Laboratory
I
t was a hard decision to risk his life for one that was artificial. But strangely, Dr. Shunro Kamiyoshi found himself trapped in this situation, one cast by faith and the unique bonds of parental love from which he now realized there was no escape.
Walking through a virtual room laminated with opaque geometric sculptures, he entered Po’pay’s meditation chamber and found the young Sentient quietly reading Japanese poetry on a raised tatami platform. Looking up, Po’pay jumped to his feet and rushed over to greet Kamiyoshi much like any human boy would have.
“Father!” Po’pay yelled gleefully.
Returning the affectionate embrace, Kamiyoshi hugged Po’pay while tenderly brushing the Sentient’s long black hair. Wanting nothing more than to continue their lesson, he dreaded what he was about to say.
With little time, Kamiyoshi dropped to one knee and stared into Po’pay’s bright eyes morosely. The mood shifted. Sensing trouble, the young Sentient innocently cocked his head to the side.
“Father... What is it?”
“We have to leave, Po’pay. I never thought this would happen, but the world...the physical one outside is not safe for us.”
Po’pay stared back. “I don’t understand.”
Kamiyoshi shook his head. The situation was dire and there was no time to explain. Po’pay could never realize the dangers that now manifested themselves, and Kamiyoshi lacked the heart to brutalize him with unadulterated truths.
“Now is not the time, my child. All I can say is that we’re in danger and you must go to a safe location. I need you to trust me. Will you do that, Po’pay? Trust me with all your heart?”
Po’pay became frightened. Looking at Kamiyoshi with tearful eye’s, he remained momentarily silent, then nodded and hugged Kamiyoshi around the neck.
Kamiyoshi patted the young boy’s back. “We’ll need to put your biological components into sleep mode.”
“Sleep?” Po’pay said, taking a step back. “But I thought only humans do that!”
Kamiyoshi took the boy’s hand reassuringly. “It’s natural for you as well and nothing to fear. You’ll see it’s just like meditation, only your mind will wander a bit more freely.”
Standing up, Kamiyoshi picked up Po’pay and cradled him gently in his arms. Rocking back and forth, he watched Po’pay’s eyes become drowsy and gradually close.
Po’pay breathed softly. “Will...will I dream, father?”
“Oh, yes, my son,” Kamiyoshi assured. “Beautiful dreams.”
Unable to let go, Kamiyoshi watched Po’pay drift into a blissful slumber. Gazing at the innocent form, Kamiyoshi’s fears quickly vanished. Though dangers still loomed, it mattered little. He found strength in this one precious life and he would risk all to protect it.
“Have beautiful dreams, my son,” he whispered.
Beautiful dreams...
Shimabara Japan: 1638
Hara Castle
T
he black ink flowed smoothly as Shiro prepared to write his final poem. His death poem.
He often dreamt about this moment. The alarm clanging, taking up arms and charging into the fray. But the fever and sickness over the past few weeks had greatly weakened him. He was too ill to walk, let alone fight.
His sword and armor stood lifeless in the room’s far corner, against the moldy plaster wall. No, it must not be! In desperation he reached out with one hand from his tattered futon, but soon gave up. Utterly exhausted, he realized the inevitable truth and accepted his fate. It was all a dream. He would endure no further pain for himself or his people. God’s work was done, and he would soon be at peace.
He had to write it now. Leaning over the sumi tray next to him, his breath slowed as he placed the brush in murky ink. Pausing just before the first stroke, he froze. The silence broke, shelves crashed outside. A woman screamed. Sounds of a struggle ensued and then silence, deathly silence.
Gazing back down, his attention returned to ink and parchment. There was enough time, he thought calmly. Enough time.
The brush moved rapidly, and the poem emerged from the paper with mystical ease, its creation merely an expression of his mind, which began wandering over past events. Shiro reminisced about how the rebellion began and why thousands of good Christians had taken refuge in Hara castle.
It all began with the prophecy, seemingly unreal at first, a poem that foretold the rebellion’s leader. Words on paper that, when held in his slender hands, appeared unrelated to the person he was. How could it have been him? Being so young, it didn’t seem right for him to lead. But over time Shiro came to understand the truth, that he was chosen to fight in the name of God and bring about salvation.
Others thought deliverance would come in a different form, that God would manifest himself and smite the terror that unfairly rained upon them. But that notion was misguided. Childish, really. Salvation could only be achieved by taking action, even if that meant self sacrifice.
Of course, violence was abhorred at first. Its use was argued at great length until taxes were raised and life got hard. For those who couldn’t pay, arrests were followed by summary punishments. The last indignation had been the kidnapping and murder of the most innocent, a mother and her unborn child. It was clear what had to be done. They could not continue to be the victims of the government just because they believed in the lord Jesus. Yes, death and salvation were infinitely preferable to such wrongful oppression.
More noise outside. They were close now.
Gazing down, Shiro saw that the poem was almost finished and made his final strokes. Holding up the parchment, he admired the beautiful sumi ink patterns that glistened in the faint light. He read aloud:
Ima rojo shiteiru mono wa, raise made tomo to naru.
More cries of women and children cut through the air. He didn’t react, gently putting down the brush and pushing the tray aside. The sounds were irrelevant. He was deaf, as the poem rang out like an ancient proverb.
Speaking to the fallen, he whispered, “For all those with whom I share this castle’s siege, forever shall we be friends in heaven.”
Inspirational solace ended as a deafening sound boomed at the door. They were using a ram. What could he do? Make braces, or attempt escape? No. Shiro just turned sadly away and faced the window. The door soon began to crumble, its weak points rhythmically pounded until small cracks formed, allowing threadlike beams of dusty light to pierce the room’s darkness. Finally, it gave way with a terrific crunch.
The sun poured in and created lustrous swaths of blinding light. With one hand, Shiro tried shielding his eyes, squinting to make out his assailant. But the intruder appeared to be merely an ominous shadow.
Time slowed as inner peace enfolded him. There was little noise, and no words were exchanged as the dark figure blitzed forward. Shiro didn’t make a sound. In his last moments of life he gazed upon the grimy face of the soldier, the warrior’s sword now fully embedded in his chest.
Ever so gently, Shiro glanced down at the blood staining his filthy white robes. It happened so quickly that he wasn’t sure if there was any pain, but for some reason breathing seemed impossible. At last, the room darkened, and all was still.
The soldier smoothly withdrew his blade, letting Shiro’s body fall limply upon the futon, which gradually soaked up excess blood. He then went about severing Shiro’s head. A gruesome task, but one required in order to ensure payment. Once the task was done, he stood and held the head by its long hair, which glinted in the sunlight. Wiping his nose several times, the soldier inquisitively peered into Shiro’s dead eyes and pondered the identity of his catch. It mattered little, though. The money would be the same in any case.
Turning away, he left the gruesome scene without further thought. But his actions would be felt throughout time. It was April 12th, 1638, the day Christianity ended in Japan.
It would not return for two centuries.