The Cyber Exorcist

Part 2 : Fr. Ben Xavier

It took Xavier more than five minutes to wake up and hit the snooze button. The blare of the alarm rang in his head and for once he missed the old rooster that used to crow in the garden outside his window. He was normally prompt about waking up but after the jet lag and then the hospital insomnia he was finding it hard to feel his normal self in the mornings. Of course, there were other reasons not to feel himself, but he pushed back that thought.
He swung his butt to the edge of the bed and wiggled the stumps of his thighs until they slid into the appropriate ports. Gritting his teeth against the tingling, as his nerves came alive, he stood up and plugged his elbows into the wall ports. There was a hiss and a blue light on the box lit up letting him know that all non-fleshy parts of him were fully rested and charged. Of course, he would hope that some part of him at least would be able to sleep without nightmares. The thought made him laugh a little and he ran cold plasteel fingers up and down his limbs.
The light from the window was a pale blue like the hue of the morning mists in the Tieback mountain range. But when he pulled the shades up it revealed the neon blue sign of the night cafe across the street, The Tipsy Sailor. A dancing mascot of a drunk pilot spun about along the tiled roof, it's florecence growing faint and ghost-like in the morning light.
He pulled the shades down again and dressed, still in his long black gown and collar. A shirt and slacks were more common here, but he wanted to hold onto something at least. After all, he didn't know when the call to return. He was out of the hospital now, it could come any day. As he did up the frog buttons on his vestment he wondered where the church would send him next. Running a comb through his short afro, he marched down the narrow wooden staircase of the chantry and out the door.
Reflexively this time he held his breath against the stink of the trash collection on the corner, the noxious undercurrent from the open sewer pipe on the lawn and the ever-present fumes of half a dozen different weeds that various night-walkers were smoking. Luckily he didn't have to hold his breath long as the church was only just across the street from the chantry.
A few actually-drunk pilots over the cafe shouted things garbled and rowdy at him as he walked, but then perhaps they only spoke with some new accent hereto unheard of. It still felt strange to hear English spoken in the streets.
Fr. Damien was already inside when he got in, kneeling on the stone floor in front of the sacrament, his mouth tracing the words of his morning prayers as his fingers moved down the thin pages of his liturgy of the hours. Xavier knelt down in the pew across for privacy and took out his own book. At least he hadn't slept straight through his prayers like yesterday. Perhaps the jet-lag and hospital insomnia were wearing off.
He breathed in the scent of the place, of the candle smoke, the faint whisper of incense from last night's mass and the sweet wisp of oil from a baptism, all so different from the scents of the world outside. The world had changed so much since he had been gone. But this at least remained the same. He opened his breviary and lost himself in prayer before his God.
Afterward, prayer Xavier assisted Fr. Damien in morning mass and the usual crowd that attended on morning weekdays. He was already trying to learn all their names.
There was Mrs. Lurantus, with the bandanna she kept tied around the left side of her head. She wore a long black glove on her remaining hand. The stump she kept covered in her sleeve. Like most people in this region she was born with her deformities but unlike most her body had rejected any cybernetic implants. There was the well-dressed Mr. Simmons who came every morning in the same suit and tie and never spoke to anyone, except Fr. Damien in the confessional. There was a young girl with long straight black hair who often nodded off during the sermons, and a smattering of local grandparents long retired but given mobility that most of his North Korean parishioners would have seen as fantastical. Most had new cybernetic legs but a few floated about in chairs that hovered just an inch or so above the ground on magnets.
On the other hand, finding this many people born with deformities was a rarity in his old mission.
There were a few new faces that he didn't recognize. There were always new faces. One of them still wore his red baseball cap even though it was the middle of mass. Even bolder, the team in question was from across the river instead of the city's blue color. He looked like one of the regulars Xavier had seen loitering around the Tipsy Sailer across the intersection. The man made brief eye contact with him and looked away quickly.
At this brief glance, an involuntary chill went down his spine though he couldn't have said why. He just got the feeling that there was something the man wanted. At least red-hat-man looked sober.
Sure enough, after mass red-hat made his way over to where Fr. Damien stood at the doors, wishing the departing laity a good day.
Xavier followed him in case Fr. Damien needed his help.
"I have nowhere else to go," the man was saying. Fr. Damien nodded, a look of concern on his face. Xavier stood behind the homeless man and gave Fr. Damien a look that meant, "Do you need any help?"
Fr. Damien didn't look at him exactly. He kept his focus on the homeless man, as was only polite, but when the man bent his head and looked down Fr. Damien gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of the head. Satisfied Xavier took Fr. Damien's place at the door and shook hands with the parishioners as they filed out.
It still felt uncomfortable, shaking hands. He'd finally squashed the impulse to bow to people in greeting but he also remained acutely aware that he should wash his hands after every mass now.
When the last parishioner left the man with the baseball cap was still telling his tale of woe to Fr. Damien. Xavier saw his superior lift his hand and swipe at something in the aether.
"I'm giving you my seal," he said. "If you take this to the St. Vincent de Paul society they'll know I sent you. They can help with some food and temporary shelter. Perhaps more from there if you feel you can give them more details."
The homeless man nodded but didn't look hopeful.
Something about this bothered Xavier. He'd only been at this parish for a week but already he knew this man. He'd spent many a night galavanting at the Tipsy Sailor, always in his soiled dockworker uniform, which he wore again tonight. Had the man lost his job recently? But that didn't explain how he'd lost his home too unless he had a partner or roommate who kicked him out. The man's whole manner bothered him. He spoke quietly, his movements were small and refined. Always this man was shouting, gesturing with hand movements bigger than a roomful of an Italians.
Without meaning to, Xavier stepped closer and, surprised, the man looked at him.
"You're riding him." The words, unbidden, came out louder than he'd intended. The man flinched and Fr. Damien stopped talking. Xavier was surprised that Fr. Damien hadn't noticed it before him. Xavier had only heard of posthumans- humans who had had their consciousness uploaded to an immortal digital form that granted them immortality and abilities like hacking into another person's brain chip and taking over. He'd never met a posthuman, but the guilt was plain on the stranger's face to the two priests now.
The man took off his baseball cap and twisted it in his hands.
"Yes," he finally said. "I am sorry, I'm not a Christian either."
Xavier held back a snort.
"That' was obvious when you didn't take your hat off in church. But we don't care about that. Why are you riding this man? Can you show us his seal of permission? Doesn't he normally go home this time of the morning? He'll probably have a family at home wondering why he's late."
"More to the point," said Fr. Damien. "What you are doing is wrong. "You must release him at once."
The stranger kept his gaze down but glanced at the windows and doors. Xavier stepped between him and the exit. He probably couldn't take the man, being only a week out of the hospital and a good foot shorter than him, but he knew that with his new arms he probably looked a good deal more competent at technomancy than he was. It was becoming popular among Incarnates to go about with their circuitry uncovered. Xavier only did it because the panels the diocese had been able to afford him were cheap and had warped in the sun of a window when he'd forgotten them too long.
"I can't leave him," the man said. "You don't know what I'm running from. If I stay in the aether too long they'll find me. My only hope is to stay analog."
"Do we look like the sort to sell your secret?" Fr. Damien said. "If you have a debt to someone go to the police if you need protection."
The man shook his head.
"I can't do that."
"Well, said Fr. Xavier, "If you stay in this man's body too long even more people will come bothering you about your ride in addition to whatever else you're running from.
The man nodded, clearly at a loss.
His superior shrugged a little, and Xavier could read the suggestion in the older man's grey eyes, clear as day. He sighed, trying not to give off the air of petulant youngster that could attach itself to the reputation of a new young priest faster than molasses burnt in a pan.
"Ride with me then," he said.
The man looked up, startled.
"What?"
"We won't call the police for now," said Fr. Damien. "So long as you agree to leave this poor man unharmed and stay with my brother here. You can stay with us for a few days provided you don't overtake his will. We are priests and we have a job to do so you can't make your presence known, though you can talk to us when we are in private. You can stay with us for three days. That should give you enough time to plan your next move, or perhaps, if you decide to trust us, we can help you as well. But if you won't tell us anything then this is the best we can do."
"I should warn you," Xavier said, "That if you don't take us up on our offer we'll have to call the police. We can't have you kidnapping people off the street."
"What is he a member of your church or something?" the man asked.
"No actually," said Fr. Damien. "In fact, I am quite sure he's called me a faggot from across the street on a regular occasion. But I am a man of habit and my mornings shall be thoroughly confused without his ritual greeting."
The man snorted and shook his head.
"What makes you think that I won't overtake your friend here?"
Xavier shrugged.
"You probably could quite easily. But I don't think you could take over Fr. Damian at the same time. And he'll call the police on you if you break our rules."
The man looked from one priest to the other, a bemused look on his face.
"This is not a situation I'd ever have thought myself in," he said. "But then I suppose nobody will come looking for me at a church of all things."
"Are you taking our offer or not?" Xavier asked, holding out his hand. He was toeing the line on impatience and he knew it, but he hadn't had breakfast yet and there were at least fifty things waiting for him at his desk. He wasn't exactly sure this was a good idea, but as long as Fr. Damien was around to watch him he wasn't too worried.
The man looked down at Xavier's open hand and shrugged.
"I supposed I don't really have a choice do I?" he said and took Xavier's hand in his own.
There was a slight hiss as ports in their wrists slide out and connected, then a tickling feeling as another consciousness took up residence next to his.
The baseball-man started and snapped his hand back, looking around in shock.
"What am I doing here?" he asked, that indecipherable dock worker accent coming back. "F***n churchman what'ja do to me?"
Fr. Damien and Fr. Xavier looked at each other and back at the man.
"Bloody Fagots," the man swore and half ran, half walked out of the church. He gave one terrified look over his shoulder as he left and Fr. Xavier could have sworn that it was at the statue of Mary he looked at, almost as if he were a child scared of getting caught. He wondered if the man would be there tomorrow night to shout expletives at he and Fr. Damien as they crossed the street or if some of the confusion and fear of this night might translate to wary respect.
"That's hoping for a lot," said a new voice in his mind, clear and faintly cajun. "My name is Jesse by the way. Funny you never asked. If my sins shock you while I'm here I apologize beforehand."
Fr. Xavier shrugged.
"Human nature is rather repetitive in sin," he said. "I haven't had a shocking confession in years. Doubt you could top the last one."
Briefly, both of them had a flash of Fr. Xavier sitting in a tent his very none-cybernetic arms around the thin shoulders of blood spattered young man as he shook with terror. Xavier forced away from the memory before his visitor could see more, the privacy of confession and all that. Then again he didn't think there existed a translation program for the North Korean dialect yet so those memories were probably safe. Still, he had best let Fr. Damien handle the confessions until their visitor left.
"Where was that memory from?" Jesse asked a note of repressed curiosity in his voice.
"An old life," said Fr. Xavier. "An even older world."