The Exercisist

"Bring him in."


Two neuterdrones guided Burgin into the opulent room.
Silently and swiftly they departed, leaving the nervous underdweller to
wait. This was the highest that he had ever journeyed. It was not quite
the summit of the Hive, but these chambers were still in the dizzying
upperlevels.


Burgin kept his eyes away from meeting the gaze of the
topboss. That still left a lot of the topboss to fix his gaze upon. He
was a far larger male than any the underdweller had met on the
lowerlevels. He was enormous, his huge body barely contained in the
expensive synthskin suit he had squeezed his flesh into. Burgin chose
to settle his vision on a shiny torso valve.


Topboss Norton waved his bloated hands as he
spoke.


"So you understand what the deal is, eh?" The underdweller
did not answer. He was not sure if this was a question that he was
expected to answer. His experience told him to allow and inhabitant of
the upperlevels to say everything they had to say. In turn the topboss
was used to silent submission. He continued to explain, in case the
underdweller was stupid as well as struck dumb.


"Let me illustrate the situation." Norton allowed his
discoloured body to spill out as he triggered the rapid release on his
sythskin. The inoffensive line of sight that Burgin had previously
directed his vision along now filled his eyes with the obscene image of
a male teat. In the lowerrooms such a display of sinfully translucent
flesh would appal. The open display of such a ruined temple ran against
all the doctrines of the HiveMother.


"Do you see the evidence of demons upon my body? They have a
foothold in my flesh, access granted by my foolish sin. Yea, I have
engaged in such gluttonous feasting, such reckless, promiscuous mating.
We all slip from innocence, our bodies corrupted by the passage of
time. But my slip? My slip has been a fall, a tumble down a steep slope
indeed." The topboss paused and looked up at the underdweller. "I
understand you are most pious. You have conserved your body in Her
honour; it is a dwelling fit for the HiveMother's codethread. I am
right, aren't I?"


"I do not know if that is true, topboss Norton. My broodkin
have taught me to live as the HiveMother intended. Under my
broodfather's instruction I keep my body free from the demons of sin
and -"


"That's fine," the topboss interjected with his slow drone.
"Remove your suit." A direct command from a superior could not be
refused by an underdweller; more so here on the upperlevels. Burgin's
cheap sythskin covering shrivelled to storage size around his feet. The
HiveMother would not frown on this exposure of flesh, for it was a
shrine of the most perfect conservation.


"Yes. Yes. The templewardens had told me you were in fine
condition. I will have to take their respected opinion that everything
inside works exactly as it should. But if I'm any judge?" The topboss
trailed off as he ran his hands over his own loose, yellowing flesh. It
took a hacking, retching cough to snap him from this libidinous trance.
He let a thick string of green spittle drip from his
mouth.


"So, did they teach you anything of the BarnardRevelations in
the educations?" The underdweller looked at the floor. "I see. I
sometimes do despair. How are you people to be any use, eh? Here, let
me offer you a nugget of the highereducation."


"I am riddled by sin, that much you have already seen. But I
have neither the time nor inclination to remove these demonic marks
through the necessary acts of penance. But neither do I have any desire
to go to the oblivion of Hell, condemned for my bodily corruption by
the HiveMother. No. I have the stomach for many things, but not
that."


The topboss shifted in his seat. His legs were going numb
under the obscene weight of his body. His tone brightened as he shifted
to more optimistic subjects.


"But I need not, thanks to fleshmason Barnard. It was through
him that the HiveMother revealed how it is possible for penance to be
shared, just as the Hive is the collective of all HiveDwellers. And it
is through his sacred techniques that I will share my heavy burden of
atonement with one who carries less corruption on his body. With you,
do you see?"


Topboss Norton grew increasingly impatient with the mute
underdweller. He had never been one to advocate extending the breadth
of the educations on the lowerlevels beyond that which was economically
necessary, but conversations with the resulting ignorants could get
tiresomely one-sided.


"Look. You do know how to perform penance, I can tell that
much from looking at you. Purges, ablutions and rigorous physical
ordeals? So? you could do my penance and in return I will arrange for
your accession. You and your broodkin will receive habitats on the
upperlevels. Now that is a deal, is it not?" The topboss looked out at
his inferior, waiting for an answer. He had offered the underdweller an
opportunity to decline the deal. He could have simply issued a command,
but the decision to become an exercisist should be made freely and in
full knowledge of the trials ahead. "It will be hard work? I have
sinned so terribly." The topboss finished his speech with an
apologetically meek confession. He had been proud of the tremendous
extent of his sin, but the dangerous reality he found himself in
rendered him uncharacteristically humble.


Underdweller Burgin did not hesitate to agree to the deal as
presented. He sealed the pact of exercisism with his confidently
inscribed mark of identity.


***


Norton sat at the window looking into the transferhall. He
watched with interest as the two fleshmasons picked up the tools in
turn, inspecting each shiny sterile surface, testing each bladed edge.
The underdweller already lay bare and unconscious on the flat white
table. An identical table stood immediately alongside. The junior
fleshmason traced a line down the underdweller's torso. The shallow cut
in his milky skin would act as a reference mark for all the other
incisions that would be made.


A neuterdrone buzzed around the topboss applying depilatory
cream to Norton's bloated sickly yellow skin. Norton ignored the
burning sensation as his outer surface was scoured smooth. This was
simply the first step of the cleansing process that would extend to a
thorough internal purge. He fought hard to dispel any doubts he had as
to the wisdom of this process as he watched the blades of the
fleshmasons slice this way and that to open the body of the
underdweller.


The ritual scalpels exposed the underdweller's vitals resting
in his body cavity. Norton sighed as he saw the beautifully well
conserved pulmonary system, the immaculate respiratory organs and the
barely used filtration tissues. Soon they would offer their pristine
services to his body. He would make good use of them, while his own
organs were restored, the demons driven from the flesh by the exertions
of the pious underdweller. The attraction of a clean physique in
accordance with Her principles drove any lingering doubts from his
mind. He found the promise of bodily resurrection impossible to
resist.


Norton made his way down to the theatre. The fleshmasons were
ready for him to take his place on the second sterile
table.


***


The kind of sin that Burgin dreamt of could be absolved. The
kind of person Burgin dreamt that he was found the path to absolution
easily. The fleshmasons could offer undemanding methods of serving
penance, provided one was an inhabitant of the upperlevels. And Burgin
dreamt of his accession to the highest rooms of the Hive, lifting his
broodkin from the depths of austerity to the heights of
consumption.


Burgin dreamt of every sin forbidden by the HiveMother. His
imaginings were filled with fantasies of orgiastic, libidinous,
gluttonous sin. And if the demons that were wrought upon his flesh by
these wrongs proved too great for any of the Holy regimen to remove,
then he could always employ an exercisist of his own.


***


The senior fleshmason cracked open the chest of topboss
Norton. Moving immediately, the junior fleshmason used the suction tube
to drain the exposed cavity of the offensive fluids. As the level of
the thick liquid slowly fell, the marbled tissues of the topboss'
vitals were exposed. The surface discoloration was merely a symptom of
the demons within. The fleshmasons poked and prodded the jellied,
swollen organs as they considered where they should
begin.


"It really is marvellous, isn't it? He is marked by quite a
supreme level of sin. Do you see those black streaks in his respiratory
sacks? They are truly prodigious. I have not seen demonic scars like
that since? oh, actually, I've not seen anything of this extent
before."


"Yes, the role of the topboss demands great sacrifice. What,
standing on the peak above us, absorbing all manner of bodily sins
before they reach us?" The junior fleshmason smiled as he spoke, but
his senior partner was without humour.


"Quite. And if he were to expire now, there would be no
bodily resurrection for one of our most great and good. The oblivion of
Hell would be his destiny."


"So can we save him?" The junior fleshmason was serious. His
dedication to the craft trumped his irreverent attitude towards Hive
hierarchy.


"We are fortunate that the templeguides were able to find
such a pure bodied underdweller. He is one of the finest candidates for
the role of exercisist that I have ever seen. Strong, young and sin
free -"


"Well, the opportunities for sin are few and far between on
the lowerlevels," interrupted the junior fleshmason.


"Which is why, on the whole, they are the constituency from
which we draw our exercisists. Also, the educations are economically
direct. The underdwellers are a devout lot, following the spirit of Her
doctrine even if they do not understand the hieroglyphs. Now, watch
this process carefully. We will be reversing it when the exercisism is
complete."


*


Under the careful scrutiny of his partner the junior
fleshmason completed the stitching that closed the underdweller's
chest.


"This is one of the most uncertain times in the
BarnardProcess. If they were to die now then both their immortal bodies
would be bound for oblivion. What could be worse than having a temple
stuffed full of foreign vitals. Such desecration. The demons of sin
pale into insignificance?"


***


Burgin felt a heavy weight wrapped tight around his chest. It
squeezed and relaxed, then it squeezed and then it relaxed. He got used
to this rhythm, allowing the constrictions to drive his respiratory
system. His body adjusted to the abdication of control that comes with
passive breathing. He had expected this. The process was traumatic,
being the most drastic of methods to expunge the marks of sin from the
flesh. But it still took time to adjust to this confinement, both
physically and mentally. When he was ready he opened his
eyes.


A young male in a loosely fitting lurid synthskin sat before
him.


"I am Lloyd, your guide through the restoration of this
temple." His introduction was a loud interruption to the hissing,
whirring rhythm of the constricting device. These sounds were brought
into focus as the speech snapped his sense of hearing back into the
sensory inputs of his consciousness. "Relax. Let the machine breathe
for you. The vitals your body is accommodating are not yet ready for
the more strenuous techniques. Being an exercisist will be hard work."
Burgin tried, but could not remove the sound of the ventilator from the
forefront of his mind. The noise would drive him mad if he were trapped
much longer.


*


Burgin awoke to feel a sharp pain in his neck. He tried to
turn to face the assailant kindling his consciousness, but he found
that he was still encased in the tight bonds of the machine. Out of the
corner of his eye he could see Lloyd. The templeguide was pushing a
thick needle under the underdweller's skin. Once it was firmly lodged
in Burgin's neck the guide pressed the button on the pump, bringing it
whirring into life. A thick liquid was pushed into his circulatory
system. He thrashed against the machine as the pain spread down his
body, through the blood vessels and into the pumping organ he
hosted.


"Easy. Easy." Lloyd soothed the underdweller as his client's
eyes rolled in their sockets and spittle built up at the corners of his
mouth. "There will be several more scouring purges before you are fit
to leave this machine." Burgin's senses faded as blackness spread
across his vision and silence filled his mind.


*


There was a stink in the air as he woke. His nose and throat
burned, and there was a foul flavour upon his tongue. Burgin looked
down at his chest, still encased in the breathing machine. Thin vomit
was splattered across the flexing metal surface. The machine was
forcing him to breathe deeply, drawing the polluted air across his
aroma receptors. Though he could close his eyes to block out the sight
the smell could not be avoided. This triggered yet more retching, a
doubly painful reflex when conducted against the constraints of the
machine. Lloyd came running, anxious that his charge remained on the
path of penance.


"Oh my, underdweller Burgin. We can't be having this. I'm
afraid it seems that you'll need another dose of the scouring salts.
Just stay where you are." A little chuckle broke Lloyd's soothing
tone.


*


So how much time passed? Burgin could not be certain, trapped
in the rhythmically pulsing bands of metal in an unchanging
convalescencechamber. He tripped from periods of consciousness to the
unknowable spans of unconsciousness with no means of marking the time.
With such slight sensory stimuli, he constructed his own calendar from
the meagre inventory of his existence. Cycles of respiratory
constriction became his seconds, the regular injections played the role
of hours and the painfully vomitous expulsion of his balanced rations
marked his analogue to a day.


This monotonous cycle of penance continued for the
interminable length of time. The austerity and pain are in keeping with
the spirit of Her bodily doctrine, but he did wish for the dutiful
company of his broodkin rather than the impious Lloyd. But he had no
choice.


*


Norton admired his new physique in the polished metal wall.
He rarely found a reason to be appreciative, but he had to admit that
the fleshmasons had done a fine job. The subcutaneous hydrocarbon
compounds that had been a major factor in his previous swollen form had
been carefully removed. His skin had been scrubbed and polished and the
oversized hide had then been cut and stretched to his new size. He
would not have admitted it before, but in this restored state he could
confess that he had been grotesque. Now that the fleshmasons had taken
their blades to him he supposed that he could be described as
svelte.


The real difference brought about by the BarnardProcess was
not his newly cleansed look of sin-free innocence, but how he felt. He
felt amazing, fantastic, tremendous! He could have praised the vitals
that brought new life to his body with all the superlatives in
HiveTalk. And indeed he nearly did, singing and dancing around the
room. His respiratory sacks expanded, drawing in breath, and then he
exhaled, using the expulsion of gas to shout commendations to the
virtues of piety. There was none of the wheezing he had grown to live
with, there was no bubbling in the depths of his chest. They seemed so
large he fancied that these respiratory sacks were truly cathedrals
dedicated to Her glory.


He could now move with ease. The fleshmasons had removed the
scar tissue and obstructive growths from his joints and muscles. He
began to test the range of his new degree of mobility. The pulmonary
system residing in his chest cavity stood up to the strain. The rhythm
of the pump barely changed as he moved from a stroll, to a brisk walk,
and then up to a trotting jog. He thought that this reminded him of
something, and then realised that the last time he moved like this were
in days now long forgotten. Perhaps it was even before his accession.
Now, as in that age past, he felt like a young bull.


With that thought he slowed his liberating jog. Once he had
stopped he sat down and breathed deeply. It was only appropriate that a
young male conserves his energy for the matewives.


***


Perspiration dripped into Burgin's eyes as he ran. He had
been released from the machine and been put straight into the first
routine of exertions. The vitals in his chest burned and the
respiratory sacs felt raw and bloody. He was suffering temporal shock,
moving from an environment where time had little meaning to one where
every microsecond was counted and measured. Burgin stared at the
rapidly changing figures on the timepiece without comprehension. He
could simply hope for it to end, begging Lloyd to stop the machine that
moved the floor under his feet. The templeguide would give him no
indication as to when he would be released from this measure of
penance.


"Alright. That's enough, you can stop now," commanded Lloyd,
as the timepiece displayed the set of symbols he had been waiting for.
Burgin legs felt weak and he began to stumble as the floor slowed in
irregular degrees. He found that he had to hold tight on to the
handrail to lift his body from the machine. This was all unfamiliar to
him. On the lowerlevels the exertions of penance were usually performed
on a circuit of passageways.


"I see that this will take some time. Some time indeed."
Lloyd looked at his faltering client with pity. "The topboss Norton's
vitals are as marked by as many sins as one can imagine." The
templeguide led the weakened underdweller back to the Spartan cell.
They both realised that restoring the innocence of the vitals Burgin
carried in his chest cavity would take time and energy. But for today
these commodities were spent. He collapsed onto the hard cot,
exhausted.


***


Norton revelled in his superior health. The matewives
complimented him on his new-found stamina and seemed far less repulsed
by his desuited from. Of course he had never had problems attracting
the attentions of females. Now, however, they seemed much more eager.
The topboss did not mull over these changes to any great degree,
finding his thoughts filled with the more pressing matter of pressing
flesh.


He could now feast amongst the best of the young
upperdwellers. He impressed many across the upper ranks of the Hive
hierarchy with his prodigious consumption, winning both respect and
favours through his impressive disregard for the dangers of sin. He had
dismissed his templeguide almost immediately after leaving his
convalescencechamber. He had found the templeguide's prattling
admonishments to be a bore.


***


"Up. Get Up." Burgin opened his eyes slowly, trying to steal
a few more moments of half-sleep. His legs were stiff from the previous
day's exertions and they resisted his efforts to swing them from the
cot. In his old life on the lowerlevels he would have been able to
spring from his cot to perform the morning's Holy exertions. He
reminded himself that this was the beginning of his new life. When his
duties as an exercisist were complete he would ascend the Hive. That
was the motivation he needed.


He marched down the passageway that led to the
exercisisionchamber. Lloyd found himself breaking into a half-jog to
keep pace. This was the kind of client he liked to work with. Able,
compliant and fundamentally motivated.


Machine upon machine waited for the underdweller, powered up
and ready to push and pull the topboss' respiratory and pulmonary
systems back into innocence. Lloyd set up a drip to feed purging fluids
steadily into Burgin's system. Slowly they would cleanse the filtration
vitals of the off-doctrine transgression that clogged their
efficiency.


***


"What will be your sin today?" asked the hostess of the
underlegal club. Norton looked down at the tray presented. His fingers
hovered over the powders and pills, tempted by each and every sort. He
looked up at the hostess. Before, he could trust the restrictions of
old tired flesh to channel the stream of choices that made up his
personality. Now, with all the freedom of innocence, Norton needed
guidance. "Perhaps the topboss would like to try a Rapture? A potent
and invigorating combination of powders and tonics."


***


Chemistry is altered, thrown into imbalance and the course of
electrical thought is diverted.


Norton was falling down the heart of the Hive. The air
through which his accelerating body was rushing resisted his movement,
seemingly pushing back against his tumbling naked form. He was too
heavy for air to hold aloft, no matter how determined the atmosphere.
The air achieved only small triumphs. It forced his eyes to close
defensively, sealing off the tearful pools from constant assault. And
it carried away the sound of his screams, rendering his terror
mute.


***


Norton leapt from his recumbence with a strangled cry,
throwing the two pampering matewives from their perches. He pulled
himself upright, clutching at his body, grabbing for the suffocating
pain inside. His chest tightened as the pulmonary system skipped and
jumped into a palpitating arrhythmic beat. Such sin, such intensely
tremendous sin, Norton thought. The images received by his mind melted
away at the edges as his eyes began to fail. He marvelled at his own
colossal capacity for corrupting behaviour. It must have been
unparalleled in the history of innocence lost to so soon overcome such
asylums of purity as these new vitals. It had been what, two cycles
since the BarnardProcess?


He desperately reached for the emergency band, pressing the
button over and over and over again. He had no wish for today's sins to
have been his last, however monumental.


***


Lloyd came running, and hustled Burgin onto the wheeled metal
table.


"Come on, come on," the templeguide snapped as the drowsy
underdweller tarried.


"What?" was the limit of his interrogative questioning
response.


"Not today. Not now. They're done? you're finished? it's all
over." Burgin looked up at Lloyd as his limbs were strapped tight to
the trolley. As he caught his templeguide's eyes for just a moment he
fancied that there was a hint of pride in Lloyd's look. In himself,
Burgin certainly knew that he was proud.


Lloyd pushed the needle into his neck. The warm liquid that
the plunger expelled arrested the slow awaking of the underdweller,
tripping him down into unconsciousness. As he fell beneath the surface
he thought of how well he had served as an exercisist. Of the
sacrifice, the pain and the denial of the regimen of restoration. He
imagined his examination by the HiveMother when it came time for his
bodily resurrection. There, She would find him worthy of elevation to
the ranks of Her martyrs, the greatest commendation for his
conservation of the innocence of his flesh.


*


Lloyd watched as the fleshmasons took charge of the trolley
on which Burgin's unconscious body rode. He had no doubt that the
underdweller was the best exercisists that he had worked with, so it
was a shame that they would not be able to complete their task. He
stood sadly outside the transferhall for a few moments, before turning
away and casting his imagination onto happier subjects.


*


The fleshmasons worked with urgency. They were staggered when
they cracked open the chests of the two males.

"By the HiveMother! What are we to do? These vitals? they are not ready
yet, and? and?" stuttered the shocked junior
fleshmason.


"We do the best we can. The best we can for their immortal
bodies."


They cut, sliced, grafted and sutured as vitals were
transferred between the two open bodies. They understood the importance
of their work. Lives were but trifles compared to the destiny of a
bodily soul.


***


Altered anaesthetic states are achieved under the careful
chemistry of the fleshmasons.


Burgin was on his knees, his torso sliced open from chest to
genitals. His vitals spilled from the gash, landing on the dirt floor
with a dull wet splash. He tried to gather the organs up and push them
back into the cavity, but the layer of jellied fats made them slimy and
slippery and he could find no grip. Desperately he scooped, drawing in
dust and dirt with the armfuls of offal that he pushed into his
belly.


***


The neuterdrones who returned his broodson left without
explanation or apology. Burgin's broodfather looked down at the boy. It
had been but two cycles since Burgin had left the lowerlevels, but he
had barely recognised his broodson when the neuterdrones had presented
him. He wished that he could have denied that the abomination was kin,
a product of his codethread. The skin was vividly discoloured and the
form, remembered as sculpted and lean, had been distended by the rapid
random growths of sin. The neuterdrones had then presented the
sacramental parchment to him. Though the hieroglyphs were beyond the
old male's educations, the power and authority of the document was not.
With mortal shame he could not deny that the mark of identity was
Burgin's.


The broodfather covered Burgin's ruined rotten body, hiding
it from the curious sanctimony of his neighbourdwellers. He left the
boy where he lay, wheezing into the dirt. Burgin's life expired soon
after.


***


The hulking resurrectioneer lifted the two bodies from his
cart, dropping them onto the sorting table. He circled round the stiff
figures, a finger to his lips as he examined their mortal poses. The
resurrectioneer sighed, slowly expelling a breath as he realised the
ignominious fate of the two rigid corpses.


"I don't think there's much argument to be had with you two,
eh? Absolutely ridden with sin from head to toe. What a life you two
must have had, though I'm afraid it ends here." The resurrectioneer
leaned in to wave a finger in front of Burgin's lifeless face. "No
resurrection for you." He shifted his attention to the glassy eyed
topboss. "And none for you."


"I'd normally conduct a more thorough check. You know, to see
if there is any hint of decency in your flesh, any small part of your
bodily soul that can be resurrected. But with you two, forget about
it."


The resurrectioneer lifted one of Norton's stiff black-purple
arms. "I wouldn't feed this stuff to my cattle, never mind my
broodspring." He let the arm drop. "No. Your foul poisoned flesh is of
no value to the Hive. It's the landfill for you, my
friends."