We are not immortal. Shakespeare wrote of the seven ages of man in, “As You Like It.” The last stage is second childhood, “sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.” After that the sun also sets for us and we become legend. Primaris Solenne Vexton Ulyth, war lord and boss of bosses of what used to be Berkeley, CA, has shed his mortal coil.
This natural event, however, is the greatest crime every perpetrated. Ulyth cannot die. He is immortal. He is a god and a warrior. Ulyth LIVES ON! So saith the inner circle around him. One of Ulyth’s aide’s put in a P1 ticket to have the telemetry repaired. A Primaris cannot die. Telemetry saying otherwise is broken.
The TavroOS suite of tech that runs the castle and generates the content for the Citadel’s social media stream is under strict orders to keep putting out hourly missives to the HiveMind. Rumors of his death began circulating. All of which were denied and met with threats to silence anyone who dared to suggest the Primaris could die. No, he crossed into the unseen realm, to weigh the faithful and the faithless.
We Say Sunrise
In the great room of the castle, someone said the quiet part out loud, “the Solenne is dead.” Those words are a mortal sin punishable by a long and tormented death. One of the nurses said it. The HiveMind heard it so all the on duty robots knew it. A pall drifted through the great room and wafted its way through the castle. The nurse just spoke words that could be suicidal.
The pall isn’t new. It’s an ill wind that drifts in with the fog and burns off as the morning rises. There was a time when the rose tinted memories were matched by facts. Vexton Ulyth was the alpha dog in the Bay Area. His word was holy. No one dared to deviate from his orthodoxy. The Citadel had money. “From each according to his ability to each according to his need” found early success. Crime dropped. Mothers pushed strollers along San Pablo Avenue without fear. The hill above Memorial Stadium was a friendly place to watch the Bears play football. It was a glorious decade.
Then things started to get wonky. Nothing to worry about, nothing to see. Just a temporary set back. Committees formed to address the external challenges interfering with progress. Everyone nervously exhaled because it looked like the community would be ok.
A Growing Fog
The first whiff of pall happened about 35 years in. None of it said, “stroke” or “dementia”. Just a hard working man who needed to rest. The Primaris worked long days, sometimes twenty-hours, missing meals and throwing tantrums when someone gently suggested all that CRT time was affecting his eyes.
City government ran on command and pace setting leadership. It was expected that everyone would follow commands and keep up. The answer to policy that was difficult was more policy. The thicket of regulation began to choke the Citadel. But . . . not to worry. Better days lie ahead said the Dear Leader.
Turnover at City Hall began to be challenging. You need a division of petty bureaucrats to run the kudzu infestation that became Citadel municipal law. Eating a pickle was a marathon of paperwork and delays. Even then they seldom approved anything larger than a single slice of pickle. Strangely, home canned, full dill pickles became a black market trade the Citadel couldn’t stop.
Walking Sticks Are Heresy
Staff called it “The Poopy Faced Hour.” It hit in the afternoon, usually around Hour 14, and it always started the same way — a roo‑face, that pinched, startled look like he’d just soiled his underwear. Then came the whimper, the complaint about some random thing — the CRT in his office being the wrong shade of green, the hum of the air handler, the texture of the napkins. Everyone knew the signs. It’s nap time for the old man.
Kaiser Senior Advantage sent him home with a cane after his last doctor visit. He told the staff to get rid of it, that he didn’t need a damned walking stick, just one of those stupid robots had to hold his hand. The Roo could 3D print things, including an autonomous electric wheelchair. A milestone event: Ulyth a few years before his passing, sat in the robot wheelchair and declared it to be his invention, that he’d always used it.
Yeah . . . one more for the “primy” log. The HiveMind heard it and added it to the log along with “I always liked my burgers medium rare” and “honey mustard is gross” Honey mustard dressing is on his salads and those are the best salads in the history of the world. Last one, the title of the Hemingway novel is “The Sun Also Sets”. Facts. Primy facts.
ハイ、ドウゾ
The staff put him down for a nap at 14:20. Dinner is often late, around 8pm, served by male skinned, polo and khaki dressed Kenta. Ulyth was into pomp & circumstance so dinner was service à la russe. It took a while, so the next event in the routine was sleep. Doing that meant a sponge bath, therapeutic massage, and dressing for bed.
Ulyth got tucked in at 10:02. Two minutes past the scheduled time–a violation of the regs and also a problem for another day. Then it was lights out and rig for night watch. Lights in the castle set to vermillion, 50% brightness. Stream the “Glassline” playlist at 25% volume. The HiveMind placed one medTech robot on watch in the room with Ulyth. Everything else moved about to service nooks to connect and be prepped for their next watch.
The house cleared dinner and prepped the kitchen and dining room for breakfast. Human nurses clocked out and got into a TavroPod for the commute home. The temple of 1970’s IBM tech beeped and chattered as it streamed telemetry about Ulyth’s health. Just another day in Paradise.
EOF
21251014021630 Cardiac Arrest Detected. 5 seconds later Resperatory Arrest Detected. The on-duty medTech robot evaluated the arrest and the filed Advanced Medical Directive. At compute speed intervention shifted to post-mortem care. Harris Funeral Services was notified. They replied that they would pick up Ulyth’s remains by 0330.
Before things began to devolve there were true believers loyal to Ulyth who made arrangements. They created an irrevocable trust invested in corporate bonds to support a 501(c)(3) named the Citadel. The Citadel never had a municipal charter, statuatory authority, police powers, taxation rights or recognized sovereign authority. None of that mattered to the Primaris and his cabal who called themselves “Keepers of Serenity”. It wasn’t taxes that people paid to the Citadel. It was honor obligations.
There were no police because cops are racist. Instead, there were Bliss Influencers. The same uniformed security that found it safer to spend their shift occupying a booth at Rocket 88. Nothing written down or recorded with Pacific Cascadia gave them sovereign authority. Ulyth and the Keepers of Serenity claimed it anyway.
He Rises
No one is immortal. We get seven ages, a third of which are our active years. Yes, Jesus and his followers made the claim that if you followed them you would have eternal life. St. Paul argues that we have earthly and heavenly bodies then further, it is our heavenly bodies that are immortal. That’s not enough for the Keepers of Serenity. It is the darkets of heresies to say that Primaris Solenne Vexton Ulyth I is dead. He’s ALIVE!
He’s also toe-tagged in a refrigerator while the Citadel prepares the castle for a memorial service that isn’t a memorial service. It’s an ascension service. Because the Primaris isn’t dead. He’s transcended to his spiritual being and rose to his natural place where he can judge the faithful. The faithful need judging, He spoke.
The castle was decorated in black bunting. In the great room a catafalque was placed. On it was an argon gas filled clear Lexan sarcophagus. Ulyth, ascended, lay on gold-satin bedding dressed in a wool suit with all his medals and awards. The Primaris looked good.
The Father Set
The Great Room, decorated, was beautiful. The catafalque was draped with black bunting. The Lexan sarcophagus was air brushed with gold metalic along the edges. A chamber orchestra played Phillip Glass’ Company, Movement II. The event was catered by The Mixing Bowl. Rev. Elias Corwin gave the eulogy. A few of the Keepers of Serenity offered memories of the Primaris. It was lovely.
There was no death announcement. The memorial was private, by invitation only. Once it was done, once Vexton Ulyth was ensconced in his sarcophagus, the social media storm started. The Primaris is not dead and anyone who says otherwise is guilty of mortal sin punishable by a torturous death. KPUFR’s Fern Loomis attended the memorial and reported the Primaris’ death on her evening broadcast.
Ixnay Loomis? No. Loomis is off-limits by edict from the Primaris himself. She was in the innermost inner circle. Her place in his life meant that she could, if she chose, convict a Keeper of Serenity with apostasy. But that’s a story for another day. Loomis, for her part, is indifferent to the idolatry of the KoS.
Without the Primaris the pall that hung over the castle stuck around. Ulyth, even demented, gave the Citadel purpose and focus. Now there is a hole in the lives of those he left behind.