Childhood’s End

by Geoffrey Hart

Previously published as: Hart, G. 2017. Childhood’s End. p. 259-262 in: Spider Robinson and J.A. Gardner, eds. Compostela: Tesseracts Twenty. Edge Publishing, Calgary.

The Priest of the Ascension instantiates, shrugging into a body like someone donning clothing that hasn’t fit him for decades. He smiles benevolently as he comes into focus. “Welcome, my child. Have you chosen to exercise your right as a new adult, and join the ranks of the Ascended?”

My mouth is dry, for I’ve been waiting a long time this day. Even with the best intentions, the Ascended have difficulty remembering the passage of time for those of us still in the flesh. But the answer has not changed in the month since I applied. “I am.”

“You understand the process?”

“I do.” I sign the agreement using my augments.

“Excellent. To know where you are going, you must first understand where you come from. Are you prepared for the Ordeal?”

“I am.” I sign off on the second agreement.

“Very well.”

That suddenly, I find myself elsewhere.

The waldo positions an electrode above the ape’s head, then it descends until the electrode brushes the shaved skull. The graduate student does not look up, eyes focused on the 3D scan on her workstation. She adjusts the position of the waldo minutely, then lowers the mechanical arm until the electrode penetrates the skull with a crack! of bone. When she applies the current, the ape jerks, its lips a rictus of agony, but nothing can be heard behind the thick glass that separates her from her subject. I am beside her, yet also on the other side of the glass watching her. She moves to an adjacent workstation, confirms the electrode’s positioning above my skull. I writhe against the straps that hold my body, the clamps that hold my head in position. Then I watch the electrode descend between my eyes, heartbeat racing, until it penetrates deep within my brain, a short, sharp burst of pain. When the electrode sparks, I feel pain such as I’ve never imagined. Acrid smoke emerges from the wound and a lock of hair crisps and curls away, passing before my eyes. My tongue goes numb and blood fills my mouth, but I cannot scream. “Human subject shows no signs of pain,” she taps on her tablet. “Ergo: apes feel no pain.”

Then I’m gone, standing above a crowd on a walkway with several men, impeccably dressed in expensive suits. They mill about, pressing the flesh, smiling at each other. Below, the crowd carry slogans on placards; from this distance, vision still blurred, I can’t see the words, nor infer the theme that unites them. The financially comfortable, too well groomed for this gathering, mingle with the homeless and the mad, sharing cardboard cups of water. I hear a few sung words about not being fooled again. Then the men beside me look my way, smirk, unzip, dangle limp penises over the railing, and begin pissing on the crowd. I purse my lips, and they turn on me. The urine soaks through my pants and at first, it seems warm, almost a benison. But it quickly chills under a growing wind.

And the wind carries me away, deposits me beneath a withered tree. The sun blazes down, the only shade a few weak bars cast by barren branches. I hear running water, soothing until it’s overpowered by a harsh retching that comes from no human throat. I look, in time to see the sewage pipe spew clots of pungent feces floating in viridian fluid into the stream. The bloated corpse of a fish floats past; a gull descends towards it, hovers a moment, then beats its wings and flees skyward. I hear footsteps, and turn to see a man in a tweed sports jacket with leather-patched elbows; beside him, a much younger woman clutches a notebook. “Externalities are a myth, or at best a mathematical anomaly,” says the man, and the woman nods her head in meek agreement. He places his hand upon her breast—my breast!—and I recoil.

Two shaven-headed youths throw the black woman down, her chador providing no protection when her head strikes the concrete. The first kicks her in the belly, and as she curls around her hurt, he draws back his foot for another blow. The bystanders have been silent thus far. Most turn away, but one, a white woman, can no longer abide this, and intervenes: she grabs his shoulder and pulls, so the kick goes astray; rather than crushing the woman’s nose, it merely tears the cloth from her face. She’s no older than 13. “Jihadist bitch!” yells the second one. The first turns, spins the white woman around, slaps her hard enough that her glasses fly through the air. Pausing only long enough to stamp the frames beneath his heel, he tears the six-pointed silver star from the chain around her neck and thrusts her back with both hands; I stagger, seeking balance, barely seeing his fist before pain blossoms in my cheek. He grinds the lenses beneath his feet. “Welcome to Kristallnacht, bitch.” His friend laughs, pulls my arms painfully behind my back.

It continues until I can bear no more, and force myself to wake, foul sweat drenching me and vision blurred.

The Priest is beside me, supporting me with one strong hand as my knees buckle. I gather my feet beneath me, and he nods approval. “A blessing from an older time was to go forth and sin no more, but we have chosen something more relevant for a braver new world: Remember what it is to be hurt. Take this memory with you to the stars. May it remind you whence you have come, that you will never tread that path again. Remember what it is to live in the flesh, and how this will be for those who have not ascended. Remember these lessons that they may never be visited upon others before it is their time to ascend.”

He raises a hand, palm outwards in blessing, and I place my palm upon his. And as I do, my body falls to the ground behind me, discarded like a robe, and I reach upwards to the stars, eager to learn how to no longer be a child.

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