The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security by Andrew Tisbert

on the subway home Leslie noticed how quiet Tom was. She looked at him in the pulsing dim light, sitting beside her on a cracked, greasy vinyl bench seat, his paw gripping the vertical bar by the door. He stared straight ahead, his face flushed, and occasionally she saw his head shake almost imperceptibly. Leslie felt the inner arm of her head mem flex as if she'd slept on it and only now was aware of its leaden weight, its sharp needles. The word ‘grim’ appeared in her mind. That was how Tom looked—grim. She glanced around the subway car as if to find the reason for his withdrawal. There were only the usual winos and tired-looking nightshift workers, a few young men on the town, one of them grinning at an argument between his friends.
    Leslie touched Tom's shoulder. “What is it?"
    The line of his mouth went taut. “Look, hero, there's a lot you don't understand, and I just don't have the colossal energy it would take to bring you up to speed with the rest of known civilization."
    Leslie looked away, anger building in her chest. She closed Tom out of her vision and her thoughts simultaneously. She searched her memory of the ritual baptism for something to feel good about. Her submersion under Washington's hand should have been a triumphant moment. But she couldn't forget the feeling of being completely exposed. And then there was the look on Washington's face.
    Why did he make me so uncomfortable?
    Her anger gave way to disappointment. Leslie thought of the pilgrimage earlier that day, the women who recognized her, the blessing, the supplicant teenagers. What had she thought she could gain by attending the ceremony? Her disappointment expanded inside her.
    Now that she almost expected people to gape at her, she was ignored by everyone on the car. The ride home became lonely and strange; and the train hummed louder than usual, as if it were burrowing her deeply into the world.

Part II:
Fetus
    "No, I don't know that atheists should be considered as citizens, nor should they be considered as patriots. This is one nation under God."
    —George H W Bush (as reported by Robert I. Sherman from a 1987 news conference)
    "Propaganda is to a democracy what the bludgeon is to a totalitarian state."
    —Noam Chomsky, Media Control

6
    "Calvin! Get out here!"
    Roger Calvin kicked open his office door and almost ran into his boss, who stood there in his respectable red, white and blue pin-striped suit, his respectable white buckled shoes, ears plugged with a wireless headset, as his thin lips cracked open in a grin that showed absolutely no respect for him. Roger had just finished his fourth coffee of the morning. He was wired, and it was all he could do to conceal the animosity boiling inside him for this man.
    An older, refined-looking gentleman waited beside Roger's boss, staring at Roger through fashionable and surely unnecessary spectacles. All around them the station room was a frenetic swirl of activity. Mechanical eyes not yet deployed were getting orders and preparing to leave. Newscasters hollered at their crews, monitor walls blared bright images of Father Washington, police squads in action, a hurricane, Security crackdowns around the country, sensual ads for breakfast cereals and lift cars for the very wealthy. Image processors receiving data from mechanical eyes clicked and hummed. The chaos matched Roger's caffeine energy, the distracted rush of resentments and bitterness comprising his usual thoughts. The only thing that didn't fit the room was this quiet, white-haired man with fake spectacles, who stood with calm, self-assured ease.
    "Yes, Mr. Wright,” Roger said.
    "Calvin. This is your assignment for the day. This is—"
    "Yes. Dr. Bankley.” He turned to the old man and extended his hand. “Of course I know who you are. Only the greatest Policy Etymologist of our time.” The palm that gripped Roger's was dry and thin in his own thin hand. “I'm honored."
    Dr. Bankley smiled. “Of course you are."
    Roger