The Last Man: Part Fourteen

Sentinel Spies, Corporation decides and section Twenty one punishes. What is left to punish when crimes are obsolete, and when the human heart has been rendered incapable of the warm embrace of hate, the titillation of greed or metallic excitement of wanton abandon? To believe these things attributes would be foolish, but to ignore them would be to abandon humanity completely. I must believe that there is some purpose to them, something that makes us viable creatures. Must we find only evil in the darkness of our hearts? Must everything be the balance of good and evil, light and shadow, or is there only the sum of those things. The light, I feel certain, blinds just as surely as the darkness.

Alone in the courtroom I lay back on the table and close my eyes. I think of that place, that distant heaven far out to sea. I dream of the people there. They are a blur, an essence of some undefined movement, perhaps an unrestrained dance, an orgy of abandon, a raging inferno of unchecked emotion. I believe they are truly free. I must believe that they are that way. The thought sets me alight.

I must be very careful here. My thoughts, dear only to me, and constructed in a way Sentinel cannot read, are purposely vague impressions. I will not betray them completely, and in doing so betray myself. It is enough to see them dancing, and feel my spirit thrown into that fire. There it is swept with a rush of wind skyward, burning white hot with a thousand others before tumbling again to the ground where it cools in something akin to post-coital des-tous-moins.

I laugh and revel in the thought for just a moment. With that I open my arms wide and stretch, expelling the thought before it can do me any real harm. A breath cleanses me and helps to clear my head for the trial. I sit up and look around the empty chamber.

One hour to save my life, or justify it. It’s really quite impossible. Even if I could construct some stronger more compelling argument in this small amount of time Sentinel would surely read my thoughts and inform the judges. But I am learning how to thwart Sentinel, how to keep it from reading my thoughts too closely, and that’s when it occurs to me. I smile with keen satisfaction and compartmentalize the idea not as words, but as a feeling, which Sentinel cannot decipher. Not that I have any illusion of beating Sentinel, Section Twenty-one or the Corporation completely. They will see the images that comprise this idea flashing in my mind like pieces to a puzzle. Soon enough they will put the pieces together, but hopefully not before I have employed them to full advantage.

I pace the court anxious to begin again. An hour passes and there is no sign of the judges. I know they are mad trying to figure my deconstructed thoughts. The anticipation only increases my already peaked anxiety. Still I cannot contain a smile, one that betrays both satisfaction and contempt.

There are two kinds of respect. The first is the respect that is given freely. It understands the singular inviolability of human freedom. That freedom springs forth from the organism, and from the very cells that activates that organism. There is none of that in this world, and especially for me. The other is the common respect among enemies. It grows from the fear of being harmed or destroyed. That was the promise and threat of Malcolm X to his oppressors. I hold no illusions that I can foment revolution in the streets, and the judges are not, in particular, my enemy. It is their ignorance that is my enemy. I must convince them that in destroying me they ultimately destroy themselves. That is my last hope, and that is what I will attempt to exploit. My only fear is that I will betray too much to Sentinel. That would be a disaster. The judges would return fully prepared to counter my arguments well crafted reasoning. I cannot allow that to happen, and so I push the thoughts from my mind before they can form.

I stand at the window. There is a storm in the city far below. Blue-gray clouds fill the gaps between buildings, consuming the smaller ones in their churning mass. Through small breaks I can see the rain move in sheets over crowded sidewalks and busy streets. I imagine that I am there. I imagine how each drop feels as it strikes my hand and face. It is cooler on the cheeks and feels differently upon my forehead and chin. Falling on my lips the rain is salty and tastes of the sea. I imagine that it leaks through my teeth, over my tongue to the back of my throat where it cools me. At that moment the door opens to the judges chamber. The sound tears me from my fantasy, but not before it has fully achieved its purpose, and I know I have been successful by the frustrated expressions on their faces. As for the man from the Corporation there is something else. I almost hesitate to say that he seems impressed by my diversion. The faces of the judges offer only contempt.