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

concentrate on her nausea, as if scrutinizing it would prove the head mem guided her. It had to be responsible for getting her through this practice, even if she was too distracted to recognize its motion inside her. Already she'd seen a heightened awareness of social fencing, as when she had pretended not to recognize the coordinator. And her vocabulary seemed so much greater now; had she ever known such words as ‘emulate’ and ‘myriad’ and ‘syncretic’ even existed? She decided she didn't know enough about her new programming.
    When the practice was finished, Leslie followed the others backstage, where she shrank even further inside herself to avoid the stage crews surrounding her in a chaos of activity. The coordinator gestured her and nine other saints into one of the bright dressing rooms, where Leslie found a make-up-stained couch to sink into. This was a part of the Congregation of Saints she had never seen before, for vision was not allowed backstage.
    You are so alone, she told herself. So. Alone. Tom didn't understand. None of these sanctified demigods had any idea of what a fiction she was as she sat among them. She wished she had Gun in her hands. Gun would know what to say to make her feel like a human being. Right now she was nothing. Not a security guard, not yet a saint. The only thing that made her alive right now was a little knot of growing tissues inside her uterus, and it was against Washington's design, a sin. Her mind kept returning to the idea that, against all logic, meeting Roger tomorrow afternoon would make things different. Did she really want to hear terrible truths about this man's brother, to assuage her uneasiness about killing him that was part guilt, part pride? And there was something else, something she allowed herself to only half realize. The Sons of Man were outlaws. If she and her fetus wanted to survive together, where better than among outlaws to find a way to save them?
    "Leslie, right? Are you okay?"
    Leslie turned. A young woman, large green eyes staring curiously, slid onto the couch beside her. Leslie shifted to give her room. “You looked sad,” the woman said. Her skin was smooth, white and pink, and her long hair was corn silk.
    "No. It's. I mean...” Leslie looked away. This woman was everything Leslie couldn't be. Leslie had seen her on the vision many times. She was a rock singer who had written an opera about teenaged patriots. sainthood had come after her fifth platinum album. Her name was Bree. Now she was seen on vision ads for a new pharmaceutical company specializing in its own line of antidepressants.
    "Here,” Bree said. “It's just a little stage fright. That's all.” She reached down and Leslie let her grasp her hand. “It's completely natural!” The woman's eyes brightened as if she were a mechanical eye. As grateful as Leslie wanted to be for her interest, she could not help feeling even more miserable.
* * * *
    It could have been a different building she entered when it was finally time to step on stage with the other saints and cross to their honored seats in the front row. Leslie and all the saints were dressed in red, white and blue robes. The Speaker of the House had finished singing his version of ‘America', and introduced the Pageant of Saints. Leslie was the last in the line. She entered the stage to blinding light and an oceanic roar of applause. This was not the dim, empty cavern they had practiced in. This room was tense with sweat and glowing eyes in the darkness just beyond brightly burning suns. The lighting was hot against her face and, blinking, she stumbled to her seat.
    A rock band began to overpower the roar of the crowd with drums and bass and a barrage of growling rap phrases. They were set up on the far left of the stage. As they bellowed to the end of their number, Father Washington appeared far above rear center stage in a glass elevator. Leslie thought earlier that the crowd could not get any louder, but as the