Everyone's Legitimate Gun

Everyone’s Legitimate Gun

LTL

Sanctuary room A was more packed than usual. It was minutes from Christmas day. Several bunches of families were huddled as close to one another as possible across the cathedral floor sitting millimeters from the next family or lone rogue, or group of outcasts who were bonded together with ties that went beyond bloodlines.

Sounds of murmuring from the huddled groups echoed from the walls- the tonalities from their voices measuring the expanse of the room, while at the same time deepening the darkness. Faces glowed from the floor before the pulpit in the wavering light of a blaze of candles. Some of the echoes were the piped cry of infants. More were worried prayers from devotees moaned against clasped hands, knuckle bones protruding against thin skin as they pressed their lips to their prayers. Others in the sanctuary fixed their eyes to the pulpit silent and numb, or electric and twitching with anticipation for the sight of white robes to open the plain wood door just beyond the candle’s blaze and gilded filigree of gold and brass ornaments... well, it could be called gold and brass if gold and brass weren’t a myth.

Only a few in the audience had entered the cathedral just that evening for Christmas mass. Most had simply to sit up from their bed roll, tucking their possessions under their legs while hundreds of lockers in the sacristy held the rest of their more valuable stuff. And not every one of those focused and fervent eyes was seeking ‘The Ear of God’ for guidance. There were other eyes which darted to their neighbors stuff. Times were pretty desperate if you were so low to steal. Nearly every hand in the room gripped a gun with fingers resting just shy of the trigger. There was pistols and rifles and revolvers and shotguns. Derringers and garands and sten guns and thompsons. Uzis, brens . AK-47s and Carbines. How could anyone choose the best equalizer of all? Those who didn’t qualify for government issued firearms had either commissioned or homemade guns. We aren’t talking exploding bullets or anything, but they would surely deal spades in damage. Killing without the fanfare of disintegration still gets the job done. Just a bit clumsier and definitely messier. In short order you’ll find yourself before a judge explaining why you’ve littered on your country.

Kingsley kept her head bowed, eyes averted as everyone does and tried to blend in with the family next to her. Her rifle, while not government issued, was one she had fashioned herself with great enough skill that it appeared as if she were genetically qualified to own a government issued weapon as anyone else.

She appeared at least somewhat stable she was sure, with dark brown skin that profited from the obscurity of the shadows she tended to occupy. Her black coiled hair was smoothed back into a knot at the nape of her neck, but obscured by the hood of her wrap tunic emblazed with the logo for SureFine leisure wear. ..Yeah. She is totally leisurely. She was however an unfortunate victim of her gene pool. Her parents were exiled to geriatric nursing before middle age. In addition to that, she had an inherited propensity for addiction and restlessness traced as far back as a great- great maternal aunt who smoked and never settled down to have a family- choosing instead to retire from life as “an oversexed spinster”... or so read her family report. Kingsley was thence forth labelled unreliable. Literally. If someone were to break into the fortress that was both home and work for all state government officials, and hack into her file they would see a large red stamp: UNRELIABLE and ACCESS DENIED (to weapons, a compound, a government education or high sector work, as well as a prescription for a competent husband with enough income, and a strong enough will to quieten her restlessness so that she may bear, birth, and rear a minimum of six children). She had some making up to do given the apparent line of absolute buffoonery she came from.

The family Kingsley had chosen to sit near were an elderly woman, two small children around four to six, and their mother and father all with skin at least near in color to Kingsley’s own. She tried to project the air of being an aunt, granddaughter and sister. The family, while they never acknowledged her, was very much aware of both her presence and her not being any of these things. The weight of their anxiety gave her a pause of guilt, but she meant them no harm.

She had entered the cathedral earlier that evening as a newcomer. The rifle which rested on her shoulder perhaps glinted too dull without the mechanical buffing processes that added to the shine of everyone’s legitimate gun. Perhaps it was the grandmother with her years of wisdom who noticed its lack of luster and tightened her family toward herself without words in the way that close-knit people do. Instead, just a shift in the air, an imperceptible movement that only her kin would recognize putting them all on silent vigil while Kingsley projected nonchalance and belonging to a theater of no one.

She had targeted this family, but only to blend in. After working her way across the room on tip toe avoiding legs and fingers, she had practically sat on top of someone who was better at appearing nondescript than she was. Once you caught sight of him, though, he was an obvious thief and he now had his gaze trained on the glint of plastic hanging from the ear of the woman Kingsley now claimed as sister. She had used the force of her weight sitting down to nudge him aside and positioned the butt of her rifle on the floor between her knees. Gripped with fear from both her boldness and the idea of being noticed the man tucked his chin further and pointed the barrel of his government issued pistol downward.

When Kingsley had first entered the building she had pat the dust from her tunic and stomped it from her knee high boots awakening a golden cloud. She had pushed along with the contracted Closers to force the heavy wooden door shut against an exceptionally strong squall from the constant wind that agitated the blanket of dust that coated the earth from horizon to horizon in every direction. The glowering creep of sickening light from the midnight sky was abruptly severed by the shutting of the door. Midnight was dimmer than the mottled grey- green of daylight, but an ever-present glow always existed, germinating from the sky no matter the time of day.

Now, having settled in to her forged place with the family, she brushed her fingers over her temporal implant and lowered her eyes to hide that they did not shine with the frequency light of a turned on device. She was not truly using her entertainment implant, but did not want to appear to others to be introspective. She never really paid it much attention when it was entertaining her anyway. When she did, she loved to watch information shows which had years ago been ousted as only fairy tales and very well known to be lore, but nevertheless still enjoyable. Using her implant Kingsley had seen stories of blue skies and green grounds. Things that grew spontaneously that weren't other humans! Air that could be breathed through your nostrils and mouth- that one she found really to be too far-fetched. Everyone was savvy to information being make-believe. Kingsley told herself she was neutral, agreed with the rare few she spoke with that it was all nonsense, but deep down she did something else. She doubted….

And this was the reason she was rogue.

Once, though now it’s been so long... maybe it was a dream. But once, she had seen something that was different:

Kingsley had been nine or ten years old and still with her mother and father Their domed compound in Bluegrass, Iowa which was miles in diameter and above and below ground. Their home also boasted a numerous staff which included servants, and technology servicers along with all of their families, as well as a pair of eunuch Closers. She was never supposed to go outside- at least rarely was she supposed to go, and at least not without her parents, but definitely not without her father. She had snuck out while her parents were in their bedroom. Year after year, month after month they would disappear together, then a few weeks later Kingsley would often see them bowing their heads, or talking to each other with awkward uncertainty and expressions Kingsley couldn’t decipher then, but now described as shame. Another day would soon come and The Closers would heave open the entrance for a couple of official looking men. Although young, Kingsley new government when she saw it. The men would cross the threshold not bothering the servants by discarding their cloaks. Although Kingsley never observed their conversations with her parents, she was expected to be present during their greetings. Kingsley would watch her mother standing in the foyer to welcome them, back straight with a warm smile that seemed to exude from her entire frame. Always she would immediately take the hand of the most official looking official while dismissing the slightly lesser official looking official. Eyes blinking into his, she would call him by his first name telling him it had been too long. He would smirk and blush and either avoid or service an apologetic glance toward Kingsley’s father whose face showed concern, but curiously, Kingsley would always catch him turn his head with a different kind of smirk. Her mother’s shoulders were back and relaxed with feigned ease as her forefinger and thumb would twitch back and forth at a locket hanging from a chain around her neck- the only give away to her live wire nerves. The locket was a simple heart shape and didn’t really open. It was sealed shut and was just to give the impression of being a keepsake. Her mother would reach to grasp her daughter (always a risk any day) to place in front of her with arms over her shoulders to keep her still and to tighten into a hug (squeeze) if Kingsley lost focus which even Kingsley knew back then was far from unwarranted. Kingsley liked to tilt her head back to watch the sparks of light the locket made glinting with shiny silver polishing. Silver. Another myth. It was made of the same synthesized material that everything was made from. In a similar laboratory that everything was made in that housed all of the chemists, and physicists, and geneticists and any other -ists you could think of. By the time the men left, Kingsley’s parents would look their most stressed of this whole monthly routine.

An -ist is even more expensive than a tax collector and Kingsley’s parents were being visited by both. “It’s just not catching Samuel” her mother would say. “Maybe you need more time with your meditations Lorna” her father would respond, or with skepticism… “Have you been shopping on your implant…… or reading from it?” Of course the stress that she might put herself through versus relaxation could be hindering conception. “If you are in your garden honey, please try not to think”.

It was on one of those days that Kingsley’s parents strived and toiled behind their closed door that she had ventured for the first time alone out into the maelstrom of dust. She had her ventilator over her mouth and UV tinted goggles covering her eyes, with hood over hair and gloved hands. Always cunning, she had programmed several drone deliveries over the past few weeks to arrive off target at the front door instead of the secured loading dock. She had made a nuisance of herself around The Closers so that they would become used to her being underfoot, even as they opened the massive entry door. On this special day she was playing cartwheels and flips and making odd sounds demanding their attention. By now they had learned to ignore her completely and could not be bothered to notice her, so that when they turned from retrieving her miscalculated delivery, all she needed was a swift roll to slip out of the door during the few seconds their backs were turned and they were none the wiser- and in fact only felt relieved moments later when they registered that her background noise had finally faded away.

At first, Kingsley’s step was timid, but she soon found the wind was a mild gale far from blowing her over entirely. So with jumps, runs, spins, and skips she allowed the clouds of dust to push her farther and farther away from the compound. She was in a state of jubilant mindless bliss when something abruptly tugged the toe of her boot and she thudded to the ground. She lay there for a moment before thought crept back to her mind and she opened her eyes to the earth beneath her masked face. She had always imagined the ground as soft and pillowed…something that you could rake like the grains of sand in her mother’s meditation garden. Even while running across it just a moment ago, it hadn’t much crossed her mind what it really looked like. Instead of pillow-y sand it was hard and parched and the earth was cracked open. She had pushed herself up and seeking revenge, looked for the source of her stumble. A long black object appeared to impale the ground, but at both ends in a U shape. Is it alive? She didn’t know and never timid, kicked it with her boot but slid away in case it attacked. When it didn’t, she moved to inspect. She could see it with her eyes, or she could identify it with her temporal implant pretty immediately. Temporal inspection wasn’t ideal in this situation. She suspected that her parents tracked what she searched. She had a few minutes left of her stolen freedom before The Closers would pass the door on their patrol. She reached and pulled at the thing. It did not move from the ground, but then she saw something else. Color....yellow and green. Just like her mother’s Lovey brand exercise shoes. She pulled hard but this yellow and green thing conceded so immediately that she almost fell backward again- just catching herself before landing back on the baked fissured ground.

Seeing the time at the corner of her eye, Kingsley clutched the thing tight in her gloved hand and pressed against the wind to the door. This took more than minutes and by the time she arrived, urgency was needed. She stood on her toes and reaching up quickly tapped the rhythm of the code for unlocking onto the door, then pushed with the force of her entire ten year old might. The door did not budge. She had thought of everything except her own lack of strength. Her face had dropped and she was overcome with regret. The sense of achievement she had just possessed in her own sly ingenuity extinguished faster than a candle’s flame. She tried again; halfhearted this time knowing that she was no match. The gales chose then to gust stronger adding to her desolation and her clock showed less than one minute before The Closers would make their round of the front door- which she stood treasonously on the other side of. Swallowing her pride she had engaged her implant and wrote out the text navigating the letters with her forefinger along her temple to choose her note: Help let me in locked outside!!!! Notifying The Closers of her predicament and –given her history—called a drone to add a photo as proof. In moments the door heaved opened by the strength of two massively muscle bound men- an attribute Kingsley had neglected to notice until now. One of them gripped her by the arm and pulled her inside. He must have exercised unlimited tenderness given this pull should have sent her flying to the other side of the complex. The eunuchs stood examining her with eyes less stern this time, more true anger. Kingsley discovered profound interest in the dust coating her boots. Then a completely unexpected and amazing thing happened. One of The Closers tapped the other on the arm and they both walked away. Just like that. Her parents never found out about her adventure. Not even after everything changed and her family lost access to their compound- a consequence of being in an unrecoverable amount of debt from levies upon their unfruitful copulations. Kingsley was sure at the time that she was going to be ratted on sooner than later and wondered what punishment her parents could possibly find suitable for this? She tossed off her ventilator and goggles and opened her palm to inspect her find before taking it away became her punishment. The thing was now entirely crumpled and falling apart in her hand. It had no smell, and was no less yellow or green without her tinted goggles. But it was soft, with a texture she could not quite describe. Velvet? She felt that it was too dry, but the faint yellow coloring was so much like painted logos, or pictures, or the tennis balls in the athletics wing. She had kept the thing for years until it had turned into crumbles then to dust, just like everything else. Later she had learned through her implant when she was brave enough to embark on a search phrase for it, that it was supposedly… debatably….likely mythologically , called a dandelion.

When Kingsley was sixteen her mother and father were taken- at ages forty and forty three - for geriatric convalescence. The home, the staff, and all the stuff she knew were sold or contracted depending on ability to animate, to a much more productive family. She had herself been taken for testing then to a children’s home awaiting placement for a new and more responsible acting family. Her first opportunity to run away she seized without a second thought to anything or anyone other than her now dust- used to maybe be dandelion.

The time was 11:59 Christmas Eve 2099. Sanctuary room A began to build with more anticipation- electric and exciting. At last the humble wooden door opened and a priest walked to the front of the pulpit lifting his arms in a way that gave more of the impression of waving them away and projected his voice over the shadowed audience.

He stood before the congregation speaking a few Latin words before greeting everyone with enthusiasm. He seemed happy as a lark chirping and bouncing in its wired cage.

The audience leaned forward with minds and ears bent on their desire for words of hope. Perhaps that’s what got them to where they are. Things like desire. Hope. Their defection from the will of God making them unsuitable… without enough children, or without the proper weapons, or unable to purchase enough stuff. They had tried. Everyone has been trying to be good citizens and to uphold their responsibilities to support their country in the few ways they were capable. No one here in this room was any type of -ist. They knew nothing about politics- as was their duty to not know. They supported the flow of the economy by both working for and buying stuff from their country which sold them everything they needed and wanted. And listened and obeyed when their country told them everything they needed and wanted.

So why am I here? Where is my compound? What have I done to make you angry? God? What did I do? I have no doubts in the existence of my sins. And repentance is my full time occupation. But what have I missed? I’m begging you! I’ll stop begging. Let me let go of hope. But if you have something to say let me know and I will bask in your divine inspiration with knowledge that it is not mine and that inspiration can only belong to you and only you, if you can only make me do right. I’m bartering with the God all-might. This. This is where I’m wrong…..

The priest touched a screen on the table and read words that scrolled along the digital platform. The Book spoke of brotherhood, helping your neighbor, offering your last.

Heads bobbed in determined agreement as knees tucked possessions tighter under their legs. Tomorrow they would do better. There would be a line to the consummation rooms, couples finding new vitality and resolve to do their part in multiplying the population so that more could work and buy for their country. They would purchase that temporal implant upgrade they have been putting off, what compound owner has an out of date system anyway? They would let go of any strangling vestiges of doubt they may have in their country and open their hearts to belief, acceptance, and faith.

Kingsley leaned back onto her pack to rest. Her eyes had remained lowered, and she chose now to doze while everyone’s attention was upon the lectern. She drifted into a wakeful sleep maintaining personal counsel. She possessed her doubt as though it were another organ within her body with a location she could not pinpoint. Tomorrow, December 25th when the world celebrated Christmas, accepting and sharing gifts, meals, and cheer, she would drift back into the piquant gloaming of morning vanishing alone into tempests of sand, with her rifle over her shoulder and a pack full of fresh supplies. She would continue her search for green and yellow velvet struggling its way out of cracked earth, pushing out of the crevice of a barren hill, or she dared to hope- an entire expanse of velvety yellow and green, spanning from horizon to horizon in every direction and then, and only then she would remove her cloak and for the first time know what it is to breathe.