Purgatory

by

Rowena Cory Daniells

I loved long weekends. Not because I took time off, but because it meant the rest of my team left me alone to work without interruption. Not this long weekend. This time I was going to put my future on the line to prove our antiviral worked and I was going to break the Code of Research Ethics by administering it to my partner, Nathan.

I’d come in early Saturday morning to combine the antiviral with a primitive head-cold virus that I’d synthesised, modifying it to create the perfect carrying agent for my antiviral. The head-cold was designed to strike rapidly and be highly contagious. Dating from last century, I doubted anyone would have immunity.

And I was going to infect Nathan against his will.

I felt only a twinge of guilt. After all, we’d created the antiviral to destroy a virus that had caused the deaths of millions. Infecting Nathan without his informed consent was morally and ethically wrong but if I didn’t do something I’d lose him. And I couldn’t bear to lose Nathan after losing Ebony.

A river of grief travelled its familiar path through my body, swamping all other emotion. I accepted it willingly. They’d offered me therapy to lessen the loss of my infant daughter but I’d refused because I believed this dishonoured her memory.

I would have tested the antiviral on myself if it had been possible but I was one of the ten percent who were naturally immune. In the computer simulations the antiviral worked in approximately two hours but we couldn’t test it on lab animals because the virus interfered with brain function in a very specific way, so specific that only human testing would reveal if it had been destroyed. So it had to be Nathan.

After adding the antiviral and its carrier agent to my favourite perfume oil, I slipped it into my satchel. This one dose was enough to start a chain reaction. Once Nathan inhaled it and became contagious, the head-cold carrier would pass through the population like the proverbial winter ‘flu. The majority of the infected population would be cured by Christmas.

Christmas!

My laughter echoed off the tiled walls. The hysterical note frightened me and I broke off mid peel, standing there in the sudden silence fighting a sense of dislocation.

The antiviral should have been tested on foreign prisoners. After all, they’d forfeited their rights by infiltrating our society to disrupt it, unconcerned by the loss of human life. Since they were motivated by religious mania, testing the antiviral on them would be satisfyingly ironic. But getting permission to use foreign prisoners would mean approaching the Council of Social Engineers and, because of the ramifications, they would debate it and by the time they made their decision, Nathan would be irrevocably lost to me. His aberrant behaviour was killing my love for him by degrees. He’d become so detached, there were times when he was a stranger. I’d told myself his actions were prompted by the virus but logic and emotion are distant cousins.

This had to be done.

I locked up, using my thumb print to enforce the security code. Already, I was anticipating how I would approach Nathan. First I’d tell him we’d made a breakthrough and then I’d lie to him. I hated the thought, but I had no choice.

As I approached the last check point of Facility Security I told myself no one could possibly guess what I meant to do but I felt sick. I’d make a terrible spy.

Jarden straightened at his post. One of the many human back-ups to the Security System, he must have been annoyed to learn he was rostered on over the long weekend. Not clever enough to reach Careerist status, he had to be satisfied with a Sinecure, a make-work job. The credit he earned at his Sinecure provided the extras of life. In a society where housing, food and medical care were the right of every citizen, it was the extras that gave people status.

‘Going home early, Lilli, that’s not like you,’ Jarden teased. ‘I thought you were a workaholic.’

‘I’ve seen the light.’

‘What, converting to Catholic Romanticism?’

‘God forbid!’

We both laughed and I headed for the mono-rail. Like me, Jarden was one of the natural immunes. It was odd but intelligence didn’t protect one from the virus’s effects. Nathan was brilliant but because he was infected he would argue that he didn’t need to be cured, trapped in the virus’s delusional loop. Only when he was back to normal and completely rational would he thank me. And then he would be his old self. I’d missed him terribly these last five years.

When Nathan first started exhibiting symptoms, I didn’t understand what was happening. His attack had blossomed into a full blown infection in a matter of days, prompting me to pursue this area of research. The discovery that religious mania was a communicable disease had made headlines across the world and caused a great deal of anger, hence the Facility Security.

The tricky thing about viruses was that we could produce a vaccine but it was only useful if people were not infected and it turned out everyone was, even the immunes were carriers. In the vulnerable ninety percent the virus was latent until triggered and the trigger was stress. Who lived a stress free life?

Yes, I was breaking my professional code of ethics by curing Nathan without his consent. But conviction filled me. This antiviral would save so much unnecessary suffering and death. It was the goal of every citizen to contribute to our country and I was no exception.

The mono-rail travelled along the ridge, down to where our pole-house stood on a steep spur overlooking Greater Brisbane. It was midday and the city’s solar panels turned their faces to the sun like obedient Sunflowers. Since Nathan and I were both Careerist we could afford to pay for these inspiring views. Nathan was an Installation Artist. Anyone with the brains could study and become a Careerist in their chosen field, but only those with real talent could become Artistic Careerists. They were valued because they held up a mirror, helping society see itself warts and all. Nowadays Artistic Careerists had the acclaim that sportsmen and women had once experienced. I knew, because history had been one of my obligatory humanities subjects. Back then it had struck me as bizarre how a whole society could share a mass delusion over the outcome of a football match. We’d come a long way, so it came as a shock when religious mania reared its ugly head, that it could affect Nathan made it personal for me.

When I first met him he’d already attained Careerist Celebrity Status and I had only just achieved my official Careerist accreditation. The discovery of the true source of religious mania had made everyone at the Facility Research Celebrities. I’d shunned the attention. My goal was results.

When I jumped off the mono-rail the heat hit me. Inside, with our smart-architecture it would be pleasantly cool. I approached my front gate where Bougainvillea trailed defiant red arcs across the driveway. With no private vehicles this cement drive was an anachronism from before the Decline, before the Council of Engineers saved us from ourselves.

I dodged the Bougainvillea thinking I must give the bush a trim. We’d put it in when we first came here, just before Ebony was born. The plant had thrived in these six years, unlike our poor little girl. We’d felt betrayed when we discovered there were some things the marvels of modern medicine could not prevent.

Breathless, I ran down the drive and across the front veranda to the door. ‘I’m home early, Aunty Flo. Where’s Nate?’

‘Nathan is in the studio,’ the smart-house replied sounding just like a maiden aunt from an Agatha Christie novel. Nathan had chosen its persona. It had amused him back when he’d had a sense of humour and I hadn’t the heart to change it.

‘Begin recording Aunty Flo. This is to be sent to my work colleagues at the Facility.’ I wanted Tri and Yasmin to have a copy of what happened this afternoon so we could review it together on Tuesday. ‘Hi Guys. I can’t wait any longer so I’m giving Nathan the antiviral. The time is noon, Saturday. Wish me luck. Oh, and for the record, this was done without Yasmin’s authority. I take all responsibility.’

‘Do you wish to send this recording now?’

‘No, keep recording. Send it Tuesday morning.’ They were simple creatures, smart-houses. We’d had to edit Aunty Flo’s safety margins to avoid misunderstandings in Nathan’s studio.

The door opened and I stepped inside, kicking off my outdoor shoes and dumping my satchel on the antique hall stand. Glancing to the stand’s mirror I caught sight of myself. I was wind swept from my run down the street, hair coming loose from the ponytail and brushing my shoulders, eyes alert with excitement like a kid on Christmas morning.

Christmas again. We hadn’t given up our holidays when we discarded religion.

According to the Social Engineers, religion was a primitive people’s insurance policy. Where once people had implored the gods to keep their crops safe from pestilence, we genetically modified our food to be pest resistant. We should have been beyond superstition, yet we suffered from a resurgence of religious bigotry. The Social Engineers had been tolerant at first, but this last year they had begun to crack down on extremism.

Well, now I had the cure. I put a dab of perfume behind my ears and between my breasts. It was vanilla, my favourite. Nathan would not suspect a thing. Again, I felt that pang of betrayal.

Ready to do battle, I headed for the studio.

Peer Gynt’s In the Halls of the Mountain King thundered through the house. Nathan always played dramatic classical music when he was working. I used to find it endearing. Now it annoyed me.

The first two months after Ebony died he didn’t work at all and I’d feared something in him had died with her. Then he discovered the Catholic Romanticists and began his CR Period. His pieces had sold really well at first because of the novelty value and the power of his creativity. This very power had helped trigger converts in a society grown desperate for meaning. But, as the burgeoning religious movement gained momentum, costing people their Sinecures, Careers and lovers, resentment built and the Social Engineers had suggested that Nathan refrain from exhibiting or selling his work. He resented this fiercely.

Since his infection had become full blown five years ago I’d bided my time, hoping he would work his way through it. I missed the old Nathan, desperately.

My stomach churned with excitement. If this worked, apart from Tri and Yasmin, no one needed to know that I’d compromised my professional ethics. Nathan could announce that he’d had a change of heart and we’d move on, sadder and wiser, but together again.

I relished the cool of the polished boards on my bare feet as I went down the long hall. The studio stretched across the back of the house. With huge windows along three sides it looked through the bush canopy to the city. It was like living in a tree house. When I’d originally seen this room I’d thought it was the perfect place to raise a child. Ebony had been a month short of her first birthday when she died, just old enough to appreciate the brilliant lorikeets that came down to feed in the native trees.

Once again, I experienced that terrible sense of loss. And yet again, I savoured it. After six months the Counsellor had advised us to have another child. As we were both Careerists we had a licence for two, but by then Nathan had discovered Catholic Romanticism and didn’t want to bring a child into a godless world. That had really annoyed me but I’d been close to making my first break through about the true nature of religious fervour and was willing to give him more time. Now five years had passed and I was needy for another child.

Brilliant, tree dappled light streamed into the studio blinding me after the darkness of the hall. I blinked. Where was he?

There on the floor. Was he hurt? My heart lurched as I tried to make sense of what I saw. My partner lay stretched out, arms flung to each side, legs crossed at the ankle, naked on a life-size canvas. About fifteen centimetres deep, it was an impressionable-canvas, an innovative piece of technology he had designed, and he had already begun to sink into it. Later he would sculpt the form and set it with hard-light.

‘Are you all right?’ I had to shout to be heard over the music’s crescendo.

He jerked and turned his head to look up at me. For a heartbeat he didn’t recognise me then he frowned impatiently. I’d disturbed his work. Even wilfully ignorant as I was of Catholic Romanticist Lore, I recognised his subject. A powerful spasm of primitive anger flashed through me.

‘Music off, Aunty Flo,’ I ordered. Sudden silence resounded in my ears. After a couple of heart beats I heard the birds singing in the tree tops through the wide open windows. ‘I came home to share my good news with you, Nate.’

‘I have good news, too,’ he said, making a visible effort to be sociable. We’d been going through the motions, hoping we could regain that old love for a long time now. It was painful. He managed a smile. ‘The CRs have contacts in the Alliance of First World Nations. They’re going to smuggle my new exhibition out so it will be seen. The Voice of our Times cannot be Silenced.’ He’d started talking in capitals when he’d converted to Catholic Romanticism. I hated it.

‘We’ve made a breakthrough on the antiviral,’ I blurted.

‘Oh?’ He’d grown cautious after learning that we’d pinned down the viral sequence that induced religious mania. Naturally, because he was infected, he refused to believe it was a physical illness. The virus must have lain dormant until his immune system wavered under the onslaught of Ebony’s sudden decline and death. In the first extreme phase he’d insisted she visited him as an angel. His withdrawal from reality had left me to mourn her passing alone and, when I realised what had happened to him, I mourned the loss of what we’d once shared.

I licked my lips and crouched so that we were about an arm’s length apart, him lying naked on the impressionable-canvas, me kneeling like a penitent on the floor. I picked my words with care. ‘Nathan, I want you to know that I love you dearly, even after everything we’ve been through since Ebony died. And that is why I’d like to kiss and make up.’

Liar. Trickster. Firmly, I silenced the inner voice.

He sat up, pulling his back and arms free from the canvas with an audible sucking noise. His interest in my offer was obvious. We both glanced to his groin and smiled.

I leant forward. Let him kiss me, let him nuzzle my neck and breasts, let him inhale the antiviral. I was certain the virus would be eradicated but I didn’t know how this would affect him while it was happening, or how he would rationalise the sudden change. What ever happened, I would be by his side.

Our lips touched. Savouring the sensation, I prayed that I would soon have my old lover back. I cradled his head, feeling the Nodals on his temples. He’d had them implanted before I met him, back when this new technology had been used only by Psychological Resonance Interfacers. Back then, I’d admired him for his innovation. The Nodals allowed him to download emotion and impression directly into his impressionable-canvases. Now, even people on basic Sinecures had Nodals implanted to heighten their appreciation of all forms of art. I’d refused. My mind was private.

He climbed out of the impressionable-canvas and it slowly resumed its original shape. I came to my feet. Unsealing my top, I let it hang open then offered my hand. His fingers were hot and dry in mine. I led him to the cushion laden divan where I had modelled for him so often. As I sank into its familiar depths I pulled him down after me and a kick of desire made my heart race for I meant to seduce him. Call me old fashioned but I’d have to edit the recording. I didn’t want to share this intimacy with my work colleagues.

Nathan nuzzled my breasts, reclaiming my attention. I delighted in the soft brush of his hair on my skin. He lifted his head and turned away from me to sneeze, covering his face with his hand. A wry grin tugged at his lips. ‘Sorry. Must be coming down with something.’

‘Don’t worry.’ I wanted to laugh with joy. The primitive head-cold was the perfect carrier. Every breath Nathan expelled would propel the infection into the air. Everything he touched would hold a trace of the virus which could survive up to forty eight hours outside the human body. ‘I love you, Nate.’

He reached for the catch on my pants and I lifted my hips so he could peel them off, striping my lower half bare. His knee sank into the divan between mine. He lowered his head and inhaled my scent appreciatively, then sneezed again.

‘Sorry, Lill.’

I shook my head. He’d forgive me tomorrow. I pulled him down to me. ‘You’ll see. It’ll be like it was between us.’

I reached for him. He was so hot and ready, he groaned.

‘Like it was …’ He whispered. Then his eyes widened as the glaze of desire was replaced with comprehension then growing fury. He pulled upright. ‘You’ve created the antiviral? That was your good news.’

I nodded. I couldn’t lie. I held my arms out to him. ‘Be pleased for me, Nate.’

He brushed my hands aside. ‘You’ve infected me with it, haven’t you?’ His voice rose dangerously. ‘That’s why you think it will be like it was.’

I sat up, trying to put some distance between us, frightened by his intensity.

‘They warned me, told me to leave you. They said you were the tool of Satanus.’ His feverishly bright eyes fixed on me, all hint of the Nathan I loved banished by religious mania. Face flushed, he lifted large hands. ‘Truly, you were aptly named, Lillith.’

‘Oh, for god’s sake, Nate!’ I couldn’t keep the scorn from my voice. ‘Can you hear yourself?’

He lunged for me. I scooted off the end of the divan. He was fast. He tore the shirt off my back as I got away. I’d gone six steps when I glanced over my shoulder and tripped over the lip of the impressionable-canvas. I fell full length into it. Before I could pull myself from its sticky embrace he landed on me.

Betrayal burned in Nathan as he forced the heretic’s face into the impressionable-canvas. Outrage fired him and the defiler’s struggles only incensed him.

When the struggles ceased he dragged himself from the impressionable-canvas to stare uncomprehendingly at the body, stretched face down.

It did not move.

The heretic was dead.

Sad, but necessary, even inevitable. The heretic had refused when he’d suggested she give up her research. She’d turned her face away from the Mother, Father and Son towards Satanus.

He stood trembling, the heat of fever raging in him. Loss curled through his belly, painful and intimate. He’d intended this canvas to be a tribute to Mary’s Son, sacrificed to save human kind, now he had made the ultimate sacrifice for his faith.

If this was what Catholic Romanticism demanded of him, so be it.

Leaf dappled sunlight played across the rise of her buttocks. The artist in him appreciated the effect. She’d always had the perfect female body, sweet curves and slender ankles. Her body had inspired him so many times …

In that instant he saw the perfect composition. Taking her limp form he rearranged it so that she became the archetypal female half trapped, rising from the impressionable-canvas, all sinuous curves. Adding more mixture to support and encase the form, he used hard-light to set each layer.

The shafts of leafy sunlight moved across the floor from midday to mid afternoon. As golden light filled the studio Nathan lifted his latest piece, standing it upright. It was a bas relief.

A Soul in Purgatory. Lillith, the temptress, caught in mid struggle, trying to pull free of her own sin. The pale veined faux-marble finish was perfect, sensual yet cool.

Immersing himself in the image and what it meant to him, he plugged the impressionable-canvas’s input leads into his Nodals to create the imprint. Intensity churned through him. He let it run its course. It was Cathartic, as always.

Pleased, he withdrew the Nodal leads and checked that the impressionable-canvas had made the recording. Now his audience would be able to plug in and immerse themselves in his Art.

To be sure he had to test it. Steeling himself, he inserted the output leads into his nodals and waited receptive, as he took in the beauty of A Soul in Purgatory. A wave of tortured emotion hit him forming a sensory loop with the sculpture.

When he could take no more he staggered and unplugged. This piece was his best yet. No wonder his work had won so many converts to Catholic Romanticism.

And his new exhibition would do the same, taking his unique vision to the world. He glanced at the time. Nearly 2 pm. They’d be here soon.

Now that he wasn’t working he felt terrible, thick headed and feverish, so hot that everything wavered. A shower would help him freshen up. But first he lined up all his pieces for the exhibition and tested each one for nuance of feeling, arranging them in the order that they should be experienced. When he was done, he was certain that no one would be able to walk out of his exhibition without being moved. By this time he was feeling a little numb.

Still naked, he stumbled off to the bathroom and ran the shower … fresh water from the tank, solar heated. He felt no guilt letting it pour over his back and neck. In a kind of mental stupor he stayed under for ages until Aunty Flo warned him that he was seriously depleting their water store.

Bleary, he stepped out, dried off and dressed, running a comb through his hair. Why had he let it get so ragged? And he needed a shave. Why had he let himself go like this? No wonder Lillith had been dropping hints.

Lill … a cold sensation made his stomach lurch. They’d had a fight, another one, only this time he couldn’t remember what it was about or why. He’d been angry and that’s all he remembered.

At a run he burst into the studio. It was alive with late afternoon light that shifted constantly as the tree tops writhed in the breeze. He paced the length of the exhibition where Lillith’s form was reproduced over and over in exquisite detail. Where was she?

He came back to the newest sculpture. A Soul in Purgatory.

Even though the artist in him could appreciate the sculpture’s lines, for some reason sick dread filled him the longer he looked at it.

He lifted the leads and slid them into his Nodals as he stared at the tortured figure trapped in the glistening faux-marble. A wave of vile emotion swept him and with it came the memory of the physical sensation as he thrust her face into the mix despite her futile, desperate struggles. His sick but loving, painstaking arrangement of her body as he encased her in the faux-marble came back to him.

With an inarticulate howl he pulled the links from his Nodals and staggered a few steps to stare at his new exhibition. Over and over the variations of that same perverse emotion appeared in his work. How could he have lost touch with reality? The horror of it filled him with revulsion. Only god could absolve him of this crime. But the thought did not resonate, uplifting him, instead it was completely hollow.

Devastated, he took several steps back, then ran for the nearest open window, leaping out into the tree tops, crashing down through the branches to the bush floor four storeys below.

‘I’ll fast forward this bit,’ Yasmin said. She hit the button and caught Tri’s eye. Both of them were nervous, presenting the smart-house evidence to the Council of Social Engineers. The Director of their Facility had made it clear he’d washed his hands of them. Yasmin had to clear her throat before she could speak over the silent antics on screen. ‘Their smart-house closed the window when the wind rose. And it let the CR Activists in when they arrived. You can see them here, searching for Nathan. When they couldn’t find him they tried out the exhibition.’

On screen the ordinary looking activists plugged their nodals into the artworks and reacted with fast-forward abandon that was almost comic.

‘Remember,’ Tri said, ‘the cold virus remains contagious for up to forty eight hours and Nathan touched all of those artworks while he was infectious.’

The Social Engineers exchanged looks that Yasmin didn’t attempt to interpret. She just wanted to come out of this with her Careerist status intact.

She swallowed. ‘By the time the Activists loaded the artwork onto their truck they were all suffering from the first signs of a head cold.’ She switched off the recording, turning to face the long table. ‘From there some of them went to the airport. The rest went to their homes –‘

‘To infect their significant others,’ Tri said, unnecessarily didactic, she felt.

‘And the exhibition?’ the most senior Social Engineer asked.

Tri left it up to Yasmin.

‘It was a long weekend here. We didn’t get the recording until we came in this morning. The Exhibition was flown overseas, set up and given a gala opening, celebrities, media … the works. Since then, thousands have plugged in to experience the ‘Catholic Romanticists Revival’.’

‘Those thousands will have infected tens of thousands. The anti-viral is loose,’ Tri said, a shade defiantly. ‘You can’t stop it.’

Yasmin held her breath.

The senior Social Engineer glanced to her colleagues.

‘What will you do?’ Yasmin asked, mouth dry.

‘Nothing.’ The Social Engineer stood, signalling the meeting was over. ‘You’ll sign a Confidentiality Agreement and continue your work. Agreed?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Tri laughed.

Yasmin agreed, but she didn’t stop shaking until she was back at her desk. Then she switched on the religious channel and waited.

Table of Contents

Start