THE LAST MAN: Part Twelve

White light burns into the retinas of my eyes, forced open by this terrible contraption attached to my face, like something from the Inquisition. Like a river of noise and pain, combining, as if the two were some sort of new substance. The roar fills my head, threatening to tear it apart at the seams. Given that nearly every thought has been obliterated, those simple fearful thoughts are all I can summon. If Sentinel and the Corporation endeavored to barge through my thoughts, this hardly gets them closer to that goal.

Men hold my arms to the bed. Another kneels on my shins making resistance all but a fantasy. Close by, near enough to feel the static buzz, a section Twenty-one trooper holds a new more powerful Sentinel scanner to my temple. This is their tactic, their manner in cutting through my subversion, of breaking through the memory barriers thrown up to protect Bethune, John brown and the others.

They know. Of course the Corporation knows of my adventure and my subversion. I have made no attempt to hide what I have seen, only those I have seen. The question becomes when is subversion a crime? Certainly those upon whom the slightest subversion is perpetrated would conclude that any degree no matter how slight is a crime. Their lot is to know, and in that endeavor there is never enough. Sentinel and the Corporation has invaded the last sanctuary a man claims for himself, but as Bethune said, memories are malleable things.

A scream erupts, as much from madness as pain. This has all been too much, for my body and my soul. There is no clue from where that scream comes. It is a spontaneous eruption, like the collective wail of every sovereign cell and tissue in my body. As if survival is as much a conscious wish as the collective assertion of the flesh, a billion-ten billion cells rising up in mass revolt. But it comes and grows to a convulsing cry that eclipses their cruelty and lasts an eternity. What they might wish to uncover from this I can hardly imagine. There is no thought, no subversion, nothing but a single unending wail.

The torture ends, or pauses. Sentinel has invaded every memory, rummaging through my thoughts like a hoodlum through a littered alley. It has seen everything, most specifically the beautiful African faces of all those I met in the Low City. There were a thousand faces just like mine, all but poor John Brown, with his grief darkened face in eternal lament at the deaths of his sons and his failure at Harper’s Ferry. And there they will remain as long as I shall live, where Sentinel may come and visit and rummage as it chooses.

The commander stands above me. His face is square and hard and pale. The narrow collar of his black tunic presses tightly into the flesh of his neck and throat. He is an ominous character. Not for the impunity of his actions, but because he seems a bit off. He is a bit too enamored with his task, too given to emotion, as if this is all deeply personal to him. And to make the point he cocks his arm and, quite without warning or provocation, slugs me right in the testicles.

The pain is instantaneous, rolling through me like an electric jolt, and as heavy as cement. The pain is frozen and nauseating. It rolls me onto the floor with a thud and curls me into a ball. Through the slits of my eyes I can see the commander is grinning, the grim self-satisfied grin of a bully. No one else holds a shred of emotion or the least amount of sympathy. So much for the modern man!

There are more than a dozen troopers in the room now. Most of them are arrayed around my head and shoulders in a stoic cathedral of jackboots. It is far more than the three or four who burst in and fell on me as I slept off my time in the Low City. To exhausted and too sore to resist, even if I wished, they easily subdued me. And so now a calculation begins in my mind. I am weighing Reclamation against being beaten to death. The thought of being cut down in a hail of bullets while fleeing makes the calculus almost too seductive. As if anticipating that response the commander puts a heel in my chest and pushes me hard against the floor.

“Bethune, Walker, Brown?” he spits, “Where are they? Are they the terrorist leaders?”

The emotion is getting the better of him. He is losing control which is unusual even for a high commander in Section Twenty-one. Yet another crack in the perfect society reveals itself. He continues in his tirade.

“Cavorting with terrorists in the Low City, eh? You’ll tell me everything or I will pull you apart one piece at a time!”

He pummels me wildly for a moment. He is wild enough that spittle flies from his mouth, a drop landing on my cheek and another in my eye, like a little bit of ice. Another drop falls on my lip. I divert from shielding myself from his blows to wipe and spit it away, as though it is some deadly poison. The tantrum exhausts him and he stumbles away panting and wiping the drool from his chin.

“You’ll tell me, by Sentinel, or die in the process!” he rallies himself for another go at me. This time I am better prepared, or at least appropriately indignant. “Who is Bethune?”

“Read a book!” I manage through the pain, and the swimming slowness of terror. The words come from somewhere deep within me. They are an assertion, a final defiance that surprises even me. I am not confident in that sentiment by any means, especially when the commander grabs my leg and rears back for another cruel shot. Just then another trooper rushes in, saving me for a moment, at least.

“Commander,” says the young trooper smartly, “I have an important have a message.”

The pair speak at the window in hushed but urgent tones. The trooper does most of the talking, at least at first. He is adamant and persuasive to the commander whose gaze remains to the window. Whatever it is the air seems to leave the commander and his interrupted sadism, like being robbed of a long awaited meal or interrupted during a good screw. I have the feeling the commander doesn’t understand. When he turns in my direction a moment his face is beet red, but there is knowing in his eyes. He knows full well the extent my subterfuge and burns at it. I want to laugh or shout at him. I don’t of course. Need I list all the reasons? For one, pain still radiates through me like storm waves on the sea, so much that it becomes an effort even to breathe.

Somehow I mange to sit up, cradling my belly with one arm. The iron taste of blood follows a sharp cough that stabs through me. For a moment I fear internal damage from my beating. The commander is staring into me with a hate I cannot fathom. His expression screams murder, mixed with an impotent frustration, no doubt at the interruption of his perverse and extraordinary fury. I look away for fear of encouraging any further abuse, as if he needed any reason at all. My arm crumbles behind me and I fall onto the elbow with a groan. Tears threaten but I squeeze my eyes shut. I have no intention of giving him even the slightest satisfaction.

“Everyone out!” he shouts, his voice cracking with emotion.

As the troopers shuffle out he loses patience and angrily shoves the last few through the door. Alone, he grips my throat, not enough to choke, but enough to hold my total attention. His murder is restrained, but only just. I have never seen a man’s eyes so wild and unpredictable.

“I would suffer any injury for the pleasure of throwing you personally into the ovens. Don’t deny what you’ve seen. Sentinel sees all. Too bad for me the Corporation has seen fit to spare you for now, but I live for the day when your turn comes for Reclamation. Do you really think that we are so stupid? You may fool Sentinel, but Section Twenty-one and the Corporation has uncovered your little memory trick.” As he stands the commander shoves me back, my head striking the ground. His pursed lips tremble. “Seeing at you are in my sector, we will meet again!”

I remain curled into a ball on the floor for a time, long after Section Twenty-one has gone. Now I would cry, but Sentinel is still watching. If it drives me mad I will never show that to them. Instead I stand and go to the window where I can wash away my thoughts in distant dreams, not thinking, but filling my eyes at the sight of the distant ruins. I let my forehead falls against the cool of the window, soothing my body just a little. In my weakness and exhaustion my thoughts drift to Bethune and the Low City.

Am I part of their fight, I wonder? Then again isn’t everyone by decree, silence or default? If I am, then to which side do I fall? Am I a warrior, a judge, a witness or a victim? Indeed, I can see ample failure of vision, intellect and morality in only seeing two sides. Would my ultimate failure be in not seeing any other way?

My hand touches the glass. I would reach out and take those ruins into my hand. I would swallow them whole and make their promise a part of me, their hope radiating and giving new life to every cell of my being. With that thought come a sudden dark realization, that perhaps the Corporation planned all this as a means of undermining me in court in the morning. Perhaps it is not enough to defeat me, but instead to humiliate me. That, that I resolve, returning to bed, I cannot allow.