See this previous post for a communication to any who would join me in writing.  For a thought on David Lynch, see this article.  And see this article to read the story from the beginning.  Meanwhile…

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Astronaves are spirit creatures re-fashioned to function as spacecraft.  Angels are spirits re-fashioned to replace their individuality with conformity to the Celestial Hierarchy.  The astronaves of the Church suffer from both of these fates.  If the spirit is too large to be made into a Bishop Class Freighter, you cut it down to size.  A shipwright’s work is cruel.

That conformity allows them to use standardized technology and replacement parts, but its all an iron maiden for a space whale.  The revolutionaries had gotten themselves onboard a standard freighter, stowed away in sealed utility space that would seldom see used on a short run between worlds.  As long as they timed the exit right, they wouldn’t even get drowned in grain, end up dead in some griddle cakes.

But the ship wouldn’t move.  They’d been there over a day, unable to see the light that would mark that time, just running mobiles on efficiency mode, sleeping on bare metal, and defecating in a box.  As the unexpected nature of their attack helped them execute the plan, would it also help them execute the escape route?  Would the strangely apocalyptic fallout of that assassination serve as a distraction?  Or would it inspire them to implement much better security protocols in a short time, and lead to capture?

Xihuani and Jorge were practical lovers, which helped.  In the dire situation, sweet emotions were unavailable, but a practical lover didn’t need such motives to engage in a needful embrace.  The held each other, which took some edge off the fear.  Zochino wished Christina was like that, but respected her enough to not even suggest it.  She was clearly not into him.  They slept apart.

Whenever they were awake, they would hold hushed conversations that ran around the circle like clock hands – repetitious.  Affirmation of principles, questioning principles, affirming them again.  Planning their next move as if they could hope to survive, wistfully pondering what they would like the world to know about them, as if they were going to have any control over how history would see them.

In the peace of dark black sleep, the ideology and the years all stripped away, lolling mindlessly in a stew of images and sensations, telenovelas and commercials and cartoons, a vague light poured through the minds of everyone within the walled city.  It coalesced in each mind as a vision of God, in His perfect beauty and love.  Rendered innocent as children by the depth of slumber, most would behold this vision as they had at their first communion, and weep in simple joy.  Jorge and Zochino’s inner children were as peaceful as any in the land.

Xihuani felt a sour taste in her mouth that she could not place, the beautiful vision ached like a commercial for a product you could never buy.  But this was not so different from any good worshiper, of the kind troubled by doubt.  The mist paid this no attention.

In Christina’s mind, the beautiful vision reminded her too well of a recent experience from real life, and lofted her out of the reverie of deepest black.  She swam toward a light above – a heaven on fire – and the joy in her heart was of anger satisfied, of bloody triumph.  She felt the passion of hatred, and reached out to put her hands around God’s throat.

Her fingers burned away and she cried out in terror, waking in a cold sweat, gripping her hands over and over again, feeling for fingers, afraid this was the dream and that nightmare was real.  Then she fell back to her bed of steel, and moaned.

“Tina,” Zochino said, “that was a pretty bad nightmare.  Are you alright?”

She choked to clear her throat.  “Yeah.  Thanks, Chino.  God damn.”

Jorge said, “Am I still dreaming?  What’s going on?”

Zochino said, “We should try to go back to sleep.  Tina just had a…  Christina, do you see that?”

“I don’t see anything.  It’s all fuzzy in here, like night vision.  Like it’s made out of ashes.”

“The light,” he said.

Jorge sat up abruptly, shaking the sleep out of his head.  “You can see it too, Zochino?”

Everyone was sitting up.  Christina asked, “What the hell are you talking about?”

She had a wisp of light trailing from her head to the ceiling.

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