The Last Man: Part Four

I held few illusions that this trial was little more than a show, at least for the Corporation. There could be no doubt they intended me for reclamation the moment judgment was rendered, as if that judgment was ever really in question. The mere fact that I had been allowed to pour through these volumes, forbidden as they were, would have been proof enough that my fate was sealed.

So why fight? Why resist the inevitable? What is the point of struggling against death, if death is the only and ultimate outcome? But death is never the enemy, only the end of pride and struggle. As for pride it is our blessing and our enslaver. To struggle is the true purpose, struggle to breath, struggle to love, and struggle to be. It is the unreasonable pressure asserted against our struggle. That is the only true enemy, and it always comes as much from within as from without. It is the conspiracy of both which robs us ultimately of liberty. In one badly damaged volume these precious words stirred me:

“Is life so dear or peace so sweet as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!”

I knew nothing of this man Patrick Henry, except that he must have been extraordinary. Little of what he wrote remained. Mold had eaten away or stained many of the pages. What remained dissolved to the touch, leaving this short barely readable passage, and occupying a shred hardly the span of an open palm. Still, a man may hold exalted words and remain a bastard in life!


There was a crashing sound just beyond the limits of the lamp. I stood and turned suddenly, losing Patrick Henry’s words as they flew from my hand. Books tumbled and splashed. Whatever it was, it was much larger than the rats, who normally kept their distance. I raised the lamp higher, squinting to see better.

“Keep back!” It was clearly a child’s voice. That voice had a raw, feral sort of quality. There was a threatening quality, a fight first character I felt certain was real. “I swear I’ll rip yer guts off!”

“Out,” I shouted into the darkness. There was a moment of silence.

“What?” The voice called back.

“Rip your guts out-out, not off.”

I had never heard a child speak in such an insolent and primitive manner, particularly to an elder Associate. Such belligerence would certainly have meant an intense Redirection program and, failing that, reclamation. The Channels do instill proper hierarchical reverence and strong communication skills-GOOD COMMUNICATION SKILLS ARE GOOD FOR BUSINESS, one hears everywhere in the Channels.

“Show yourself,” I shouted after the phantom, attempting to sound much braver than I actually was. A book sailed out of the darkness, past my head. Another struck my chest. Not terribly hard, and I grunted more from surprise than pain.

“What is wrong with you?” I complained, dodging two more volumes. With the final one I’d had quite enough and charged over the largest mound. My feet skidded and slipped down one side, splashing brackish water onto the next mound.

I was across it in a second, batting away a panicked fusillade of fluttering and dissolving manuscripts thrown up from my fleeing little demon. It was too little too late, however. With a stumbling tackle I brought the biting and screaming urchin down.

There was a brief but furious battle amid the rotting paper, scattering insects and pungent black water. The lamp was between us, the light flickering wildly amid arms and legs and a snapping of teeth. It seemed forever before I was able to subdue the cretin, only to discover, to my great surprise, that it was a young girl!

Her simple pale filthy round face, half concealed by overlapping layers of tattered fabric, was the last thing I recall. An instant later something heavy smashed against the back of my skull. With a blinding white flash and searing sharp stab of pain the world faded to darkness and nothingness.