Glasshouse - Charles Stross [44]
Internally, the Church contains of a single room, with a platform at one end and rows of benches carved from dead trees facing it. There’s an altar on the platform, with a long naked blade lying atop it beside a large gold chalice. We file in and sit down. As soft music plays, a procession walks up the aisle from the rear of the building. There are three males, physically aged but not yet senescent, wearing distinctive robes covered in metallic thread. They climb the platform and take up set positions. Then the one at the front and right begins to speak, and I realize with a start that he’s Major-Doctor Fiore.
“Dear congregants, we are gathered here today to remember those who have gone before us. Frozen faces carved in stone, the frozen faces of multitudes.” He pauses, and everyone around us repeats his words back to him, a low rumbling echo that seems to go on and on forever.
Fiore continues to recite gibberish in portentous tones at an increasing pace. Every sentence or two he stops, and the congregation repeats his words back to him. I hope it’s gibberish—some of it is not only baffling but vaguely menacing, references to being judged after our deaths, punishment for sins, rewards for obedience. I glance sideways but quickly realize everybody else is watching him. I mouth the words but feel deeply uneasy about it. Some folks seem to be getting worked up, shouting the responses.
Next, a zombie in an alcove strikes up a turgid melody on some sort of primitive music machine, and Fiore tells us to turn the paper books in front of us to a set page. People begin singing the words there, and clapping in time, and they don’t make any sense either. The name “Christian” features in it repeatedly, but not in any context I understand. And the message of the sing-along is distinctly sinister, all about submission and conformity and reward feedback loops. It’s as if I’ve got some sort of deep-rooted reflex that refuses to let me absorb propaganda uncritically: I end up reading the book with a frown on my face.
After half an hour or so, Fiore signals the zombie to stop playing. “Dearly beloved,” he says, his tone unctuous and confiding. He leans forward on the lectern, searching our faces. “Dearly beloved.” I add my own sarcastic mental commentary to the proceedings—Too dear for you to afford, I footnote him. “Today I would like you all to extend a warm welcome to our newest members, cohort six. We are a loving Church, and it behooves us”—He actually used the word “behooves,” he actually said that!—“to gather them to our breast and welcome them fully into our family.” He smiles ecstatically and clutches the lectern as if a zombie catamite hidden behind it is sucking his cock. “Please welcome our newest members, Chris, El, Sam, Fer, and Mick, and their wives Jen, Angel, Reeve, Alice, and Cass.”
Everyone around me—except Sam, who looks as confused as I feel—suddenly starts smacking their hands together in front of them. It’s some kind of welcoming ritual, I guess, and the noise is surprisingly loud. Sam catches my eye and begins to clap, tentatively, but then Fiore holds up a hand and everybody stops.
“My children,” he says, gazing down at us fondly, “our new brethren have only been here for three days. In that time, they have had much to learn and see and do, and some of them have made mistakes. To err is human, and to forgive is also human. It is ours to forgive and to pardon. To pardon, for example, Mrs. Alice Sheldon of number six, for her difficulty with plumbing. Or to Mrs. Reeve Brown of number six, for her unfortunate public display of nudity the other day. Or to—”
He’s drowned out by laughter. I look round and see that suddenly people are laughing at me and pointing. I feel a rush of embarrassment and anger. How dare he do this? But it’s intimidating, too. There must be fifty people here, and some of them are staring as if they’re trying to figure out what I look like without any clothes on. If I was me, if I was in my own self-selected body, I’d call him out on the spot—but I’m not. In the sick pit of my