The Good Atheist

The Good Atheist by Michael Manto

Published by Franklin Street Press

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise-without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by Canadian or Unites States of America copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, locales, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Scripture quotations taken from the English Standard Version Bible. Copyright 2002 by Crossway Bibles

Cover Designer:
Kirk DouPonce

eBook Conversion and Design:
Kerry Nietz

Copyright © 2014 by Michael J Manto
www.michaelmanto.com
All rights reserved

International Standard Book Number: 978-0-9937089-0-9

To Pennie

For the best years of my life

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My heartfelt thanks to Bob and Helga Edwards for being my guinea pigs on an earlier version of the manuscript. Thanks to my proof reader, Betsy White at the Editorial Department, for your sharp eye and excellent editing skills. And to my wife, Pennie, for your patience through the many months I spent writing this, for struggling through some very rough drafts, and for your invaluable suggestions.

1

The severed head floated inches from my face. “If you’re not too busy,” it said, “there’s someone here in the lobby asking for you.”

"Who is it?” I asked. Call me a Luddite, but holographic messaging is all too realistic for my taste. It makes me yearn for the good old days of video streaming, or even old-fashioned email.

“Says he’s a lawyer. Richard Abrams, from Vermont.”

I didn’t know any lawyers, and preferred to keep it that way. “Please give him my condolences and tell him I’m busy.”

The detached head glared back at me. “He has a letter, and says he needs to talk to you about an inheritance.”

Inheritance? Highly doubtful. All my relatives were as broke as I was, and none of them lived in Vermont.

“This is a physical letter, on real paper in a real envelope. Now, can you please stop with the fifty-thousand questions and just get your butt down here. In case you didn’t get the memo, I’m actually not your personal answering service.”

Clearly she wasn’t going to politely get rid of the unwanted visitor for me. But I hadn’t been away from my desk all morning, and this gave me a good excuse to stretch my legs and cross the street for some decent coffee. The burnt swill that passed for coffee in the office was free, but it was better used for unclogging drains. “All right, I’ll be right down,” I said.

“Gee, thanks. That’s mighty big of you,” she grunted before dissolving into the air.

Miriam was standing in her cubicle next to me. We often went on coffee runs together. “I’m heading across the street to Java Junction,” I said. “Do you want me to bring you back a Latte or something?”

But she wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes, usually an exotic almond shape, were round with fear. I stood up and followed her gaze over to the far wall. Our office had an open design. There were no interior walls or private rooms, just a sea of little white square cubicles. The partitions were only waist height, just enough to give you privacy while sitting at your workstation.

Six Inquisitors stood in front of the elevator doors. Three appeared to be female, and three male, but it can be hard to tell with Inquisitors. The skin of their shaved scalps bulged with cerebral implants. Electronic circuitry covered half their faces. They wore black flak jackets and two carried weapons – short, nasty looking automatics held casually across their chests.

Heads popped up from behind cubicles all across the floor. A few remained standing, but most quickly ducked back down. I remained standing to see what happened. There was no point in hiding, really, if they had your name.

An eerie stillness settled over the entire floor as the background hum generated by a hundred office workers came to a stop. The Inquisitors moved quickly. I was Orthodox, like most of my co-workers, so I had little to fear. But, still, you never really knew. It was always possible that something you’d said in an unguarded moment had been overheard and misunderstood by an overzealous citizen, and got reported to the Agency. So I couldn’t help but feel a small sense of relief wash over me when the Inquisitors headed the other way.

They found the poor schmuck trembling in a corner. The Inquisitors pulled him out of the cubicle and cuffed him. He didn’t try to resist as they dragged him towards the elevators. It took me a moment to remember his name. A Nathan something-or-other. I’d worked with him once about a year ago.

The elevator doors snapped shut and I wondered if we would ever hear from him again. The rest of us stood in silence like mourners at a funeral, looking around at each other as if reassuring ourselves that we were still there. When the silence became embarrassing I sat back down, taking refuge behind the walls of my little cubicle, and tried to go back to work.

But concentration proved impossible. My mind kept drifting and I brooded over the implications of the arrest. The Inquisitors were sure to be collating lists of people from the office who had worked with Nathan Something-or-other.

An ‘all-staff’ email confirmed the rumors swirling around the office that an official Inquiry was being setup in a boardroom. Throughout the remainder of the day Inquisitors regularly appeared on our floor to escort co-workers into the boardroom. Most of them returned to their cubicles at some point later on, sans escort. All afternoon I wondered if I would be one of the lucky ones. It was almost quitting time before I found out.

“Citizen Callaghan,” said a voice behind me.

I turned around and found myself staring into a face that was half human, half machine. The electronics grafted onto his skull covered the left side of his face down to the cheekbone and wrapped around to cover his ear. There was a digital lens where the left eye should have been.

I stood up, mostly to relieve the acute discomfort I felt at being stared down upon. “Yes,” I said.

“Come with me please.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and started walking towards the elevators. I could see the back of his head when he turned. Electronics merged into his neck at the base of his skull.

“Okay, but I hope this doesn’t make me late for dinner,” I said. He gave no indication of having heard me as we walked to the elevator. Heads peered above cubicle walls and followed our progress across the floor. I followed him silently into the elevator and we went down one floor, and then walked the short distance to a large boardroom.

Five Inquisitors faced me from across a long table, data pads and monitors neatly arranged along the table in front of them. The Inquisitor who had escorted me took a seat at one end. Their shaved heads accentuated the severity of their expressions as they glared at me.

One of them gestured to an empty chair. I sat down, reminding myself that I was innocent and had nothing to fear. I held my hands firmly on my lap and waited.

Two of them continued to regard me with solemn expressions while the others turned to their data pads, dragging and tapping fingers over the screens. It wasn’t a big secret that the purpose of the electronic implants in their skulls was to enhance their memory retention, recall, and give them a direct mental link into the internet. Essentially, virtual data pads hard wired into their brains which connected them to the internet. Finally, one of the females spoke. “Citizen, do you know why you’ve been asked here?”

I didn’t recall being asked, I was tempted to say. I cleared my throat. “I’m thinking you want my recipe for beef bourguignon with wild mushroom sauce?”

The Inquisitor just looked at me. “This is regarding Nathan Myles Standish.”

“That guy you arrested earlier?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure, because my beef bourguignon recipe is really to die for. I think it’s way better than that guy on Channel 57.”

The six Inquisitors stared back at me.

“You know, the guy on ‘Eat This’? Monday nights at eight. Don’t you ever watch holovision?”

Apparently a humor upgrade was not a part of the package when they got their cerebral enhancements. One of the other females cleared her throat. “Citizen Standish has been accused of some very serious crimes, not the least of which is Intellectual Anarchy.”

I expressed the appropriate level of shock expected of a Free Thinker in modern society.

“There is nothing to be alarmed about, Citizen. You are not under suspicion. We routinely question co-workers, friends and family after an arrest.”

I nodded. “All righty then.”  

“This is the third such case in this office building in the last year,” the Inquisitor said. “Clearly there is danger of a metaphysical outbreak, and we need to find the source as quickly as possible before it spreads further.”

Outbreaks of metaphysical disease had been known to shut down whole companies, or require the quarantine of neighborhoods and sometimes even entire towns. No one seemed to be able to explain how it spread or why some people caught it and others didn’t. I wondered what the incubation period was for metaphysical viruses.

Another Inquisitor spoke, an older man with a gravelly voice and deeply lined face. “Your willing co-operation in this investigation will be appreciated.” He enunciated the last word as if to punctuate the fact that it would be a good idea to earn his appreciation.

“Yes, of course,” I said.

He didn’t look at me, something I always found annoying, and he wasn’t using a data pad. Instead, he looked off to my left and slightly above, as if staring at something in the air just over my shoulder. “Your company’s data files show that you’ve worked with the accused. Is that correct, Citizen Callaghan?”

“Um, yes, we collaborated on a project last year.”

“Did you ever talk about personal interests outside of work? Sports? Hobbies? Activities? That kind of thing?” This time it was a young male.

“Sure, a little. But there’s not a lot of time for socializing. We’re pretty busy around here.”

The older Inquisitor, the one with the corrugated face, leaned forward and solemnly folded his hands on the table in front of him. “As a Free Thinker, you are aware that you are obligated to report anyone to the authorities who expresses any deviation from the truth. You are aware of that, are you not?”

I straightened up in my chair. This was something all citizens knew. “Yes, of course. I’m a good citizen, Inquisitor. I know my duty.”

“I am gratified to hear that, Citizen, because the questions that follow are very important. Please consider carefully before answering.” He paused dramatically before launching into his questions.

“During your conversations with the accused, did he ever at any time express any religious beliefs? Any metaphysical leanings towards the supernatural?”

Nathan had in fact mentioned to me that he had been developing some religious beliefs. I tried to be patient, but I wasn’t interested in the conversation. So I warned him that it was Intellectual Anarchy to talk like that and he needed to keep his private ideas to himself.

This was more than I cared to admit but it was the simple truth. In retrospect, I should have reported him, but at the time I had my reasons for not wanting to. So I’d dismissed it from my mind and forgot about the whole conversation.

Until today.

The dilemma facing me now was that they will want to know why I hadn’t reported the conversation. It would have been easy enough to lie to the Inquisitors, tell them I’d heard nothing, and avoid any further trouble. And I suppose that’s what most people would do. Smart people. But I had a tiny little problem with that.

I hated lying.

My mother was a chronic liar. Growing up I watched her lie about everything, whether it was important or not. Exaggerations to make things sound better, or sadder, or more sympathetic then they really were. Skillfully leaving out key facts to change the story and allow others to draw the wrong conclusions. Mother elevated lying to an art form. It had become so habitual she had long since lost any last vestiges of guilt, and was no longer fully aware of her deceptions. She came to believe her own lies and they became her reality.

And I grew to hate it. I developed an almost allergic reaction to falsehood, and did my best to be painfully honest. Some might call it a virtue, and in some contexts I’m sure it is, but today it just felt like a liability.

Still, I couldn’t bring myself to lie. It’s a character flaw, I know. But I’ve learned to live with it. So I cleared my throat and prepared to be crucified. “Yes, he did mention something to me once, a while ago.”