Kress, Nancy - Trinity

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TRINITY

Nancy Kress

We return to the subject of God in this novella about a scientific project that attempts to bring humans

into verifiable contact with the Greater Being. It's a bold, even fantastic, idea… and one that could give rise

to some very human dangers.

Nancy Kress's first novel was The Prince of Morning Bells. A collection of her shorter fiction will be

published soon.

"Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief!"

-Mark 9:24

At first I didn't recognize Devrie.

Devrie-I didn't recognize Devrie. Astonished at myself, I studied the wasted figure

standing in the middle of the bare reception room: arms like wires, clavicle sharply

outlined, head shaved, dressed in that ugly long tent of light-weight gray. God knew

what her legs looked like under it. Then she smiled, and it was Devrie.

"You look like shit."

"Hello, Seena. Come on in."

"I am in."

"Barely. It's not catching, you know."

"Stupidity fortunately isn't," I said and closed the door behind me. The small room

was too hot; Devrie would need the heat, of course, with almost no fat left to insulate

her bones and organs. Next to her I felt huge, although I am not. Huge, hairy, sloppy-

breasted.

"Thank you for not wearing bright colors. They do affect me."

"Anything for a sister," I said, mocking the old childhood formula, the old

sentiment. But Devrie was too quick to think it was only mockery; in that, at least, she

had not changed. She clutched my arm and her fingers felt like chains, or talons.

"You found him. Seena, you found him."

"I found him."

"Tell me," she whispered.

"Sit down first, before you fall over. God, Devrie, don't you eat at all?"

"Tell me," she said. So I did.

Devrie Caroline Konig had admitted herself to the Institute of the Biological Hope

on the Caribbean island of Dominica eleven months ago, in late November of 2017,

when her age was 23 years and 4 months. I am precise about this because it is all I can

be sure of. I need the precision. The Institute of the Biological Hope is not precise; it is

a mongrel, part research laboratory in brain sciences, part monastery, part school for

training in the discipline of the mind. That made my baby sister guinea pig, postulant,

freshman. She had always been those things, but, until now, sequentially. Apparently

so had many other people, for when eccentric Nobel Prize winner James Arthur

Bohentin had founded his Institute, he had been able to fund it, although precariously.

But in that it did not differ from most private scientific research centers.

Or most monasteries.

I wanted Devrie out of the Institute of the Biological Hope.

"It's located on Dominica," I had said sensibly-what an ass I had been-to an

unwasted Devrie a year ago, "because the research procedures there fall outside

United States laws concerning the safety of research subjects. Doesn't that tell you

something, Devrie? Doesn't that at least give you pause? In New York, it would be

illegal to do to anyone what Bohentin does to his people."

"Do you know him?" she had asked.

"I have met him. Once."

"What is he like?"

"Like stone."

Devrie shrugged, and smiled. "All the participants in the Institute are willing.

Eager."

"That doesn't make it ethical for Bohentin to destroy them. Ethical or legal."

"It's legal on Dominica. And in thinking you know better than the participants what

they should risk their own lives for, aren't you playing God?"

"Better me than some untrained fanatic who offers himself up like an exalted

Viking hero, expecting Valhalla."

"You're an intellectual snob, Seena."

"I never denied it."

"Are you sure you aren't really objecting not to the Institute's dangers but to its

purpose? Isn't the 'Hope' part what really bothers you?"

"I don't think scientific method and pseudo-religious mush mix, no. I never did. I

don't think it leads to a perception of God."

"The holotank tapes indicate it leads to a perception of something the brain hasn't

encountered before," Devrie said, and for a moment I was silent.

I was once, almost, a biologist. I was aware of the legitimate studies that formed

the basis for Bohentin's megalomania: the brain wave changes that accompany

anorexia nervosa, sensory deprivation, biological feedback, and neurotransmit-ter

stimulants. I have read the historical accounts, some merely pathetic but some

disturbingly not, of the Christian mystics who achieved rapture through the

mortification of the flesh and the Eastern mystics who achieved anesthesia through the

control of the mind, of the faith healers who succeeded, of the carcinomas shrunk

through trained will. I knew of the research of focused clairvoyance during orgasm,

and of what happens when neurotransmitter number and speed are increased

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TRINITYNancyKressWereturntothesubjectofGodinthisnovellaaboutascientificproje\ctthatattemptstobringhumansintoverifiablecontactwiththeGreaterBeing.It'sabold,evenfantastic,idea…andonethatcouldgiverisetosomeveryhumandangers.NancyKress'sfirstnovelwasThePrinceofMorningBells.Acollection\ofhershorterfiction...

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