THE LAST MAN: Part Thirteen

The light is caustic and even, not sterile but stale and lifeless. It conspires with the ambient tension of this austere hall and swells with the anticipation of something as yet undefined. It builds in my chest, supplanting the arguments, rebuttals and soliloquies carefully crafted in the quiet and safety of ancient archives. I am alone at a small table, with only the hand full of notes I have scribbled.

One by one the judges, five in all, enter and take their places behind the obsidian black bench. It is high above the small space where I stand. I must strain to see each of their faces clearly. This might as well be a prison, for there is nothing but the cold white walls and single wooden door behind me.

Four of the judges are ministers from Section Twenty-one. I recognize the man from Efficiency and Entertainment, the lady from Security and Resource, the woman from Reproduction and Socialization and the man from Science and Police. The last is a man from the Corporation who will oversee the proceedings. They are much older than regular Associates. Certainly the normal rules do not apply to them. The man from the Corporation takes a seat, leaning on an elbow, as if all this is a bore or imposition. I can see little of his features except that he is slender and tall, with bright white hair. There is wisdom in his face, or rather, I shall amend, a great deal of knowledge. Wisdom, I believe comes with caring and understanding. Knowledge, in and of itself, offers ample room for evil to proliferate. I have no direct proof that he possesses wisdom, knowledge or evil, but I will grant him the benefit of the doubt and allow him the luxury to maintain or dismantle my respect. He sits apart from the others, more as an observer or an arbitrator than as a judge.

The judges’ faces are also partly obscured by shadow. That feels like a disadvantage, like a barrier or deficit I cannot fairly overcome. I am the powerless facing the powerful. It is futile, for how under such circumstances can I reasonably demand rights? Only by their benevolence will I be allowed any favor, which is in itself a defeat. After all, if they give me rights then they may rescind them at will. I hear the voices of those ancient ancestors and know that nothing is mine that I don’t fight for.

“I cannot see your faces,” I protest. I am not as confident as I hoped I would be. It sounds more like a complaint than a protest. There could hardly be a greater difference between the two.

There is no reply. The silence holds in the air like a frozen heartbeat. A throat is cleared and some papers shuffled, but nothing more. Though I cannot see them, I can feel their contemptuous stares.

“I am prepared to begin,” I say, eager to break the silence. I am happy to begin with or without their blessing. Surely they see that as another sign of my all too apparent weakness. “I have arguments to present if the court is ready?”

The silence is explosive now. It is quite deliberate on their part. Of that there can be little doubt. It underscores the question of fairness, and the futility of this fight. Any shred of confidence evaporates like a puddle beneath a hot sun. Sentinel senses my fear.

“The accused’s…” the man from Efficiency and Entertainment begins. I cut him off quickly.
“The accused?” I shoot back. “How can I have been accused of anything?”

The ministers whisper among themselves for a moment. Their words are urgent, that much I can tell. I can hear nothing of what they are actually saying. All the while the white-haired man from the Corporation remains idle, and almost detached. His gaze moves lazily about the room, as if I and the ministers and the city are abstracts to him.

“The accused’s fate has already been determined,” The man from Efficiency and Entertainment begins again. I start to speak but he stifles me with a wave of a hand. “Your fate has been determined, but the collective wisdom of this body has decided it may have overlooked some pertinent argument that may persuade us otherwise.”

“So it is really quite impossible?” I say.

“Not entirely, but it will be exceedingly difficult to dissuade our decision.”

“The burden of proof is exceedingly high,” says the woman from security and Resource.

“Then this is not a trial, but an inquisition,” I say.

“You must know,” says the man from Science and Police, “that this hearing is hardly more than a courtesy. Section twenty-one believes a great deal can be learned from your case. Given that echoes of a terribly dark past still exist undiscovered within each of us, it is necessary that every aspect of your case be studied carefully.”

The Corporation is nothing if not thorough. Curious how something as rampant and mechanical as a state, or race, nationality or collective assumes a living consciousness at some point. It becomes alive and hungry with an ego as vibrant and strong-willed as any individual. O)ne might say that ego was more potent, and certainly more dangerous than any single person could hope to attain or perpetrate.

“Echoes of the past?” I am indignant.

“Surely you understand why you are here?” says the woman from Security. “It would be pointless to argue a case with the ignorant. It would be just as well to schedule Reclamation immediately.”

“Ignorance in this case is a subjective claim,” I think, not caring, indeed wanting Sentinel to read that one particular thought. I can’t help but smile.

“Your offense…” begins the man from Efficiency.

“Offense? Again, good ministers, I’ve committed no offense,” I assert.

“Your existence is the offense,” the man from Efficiency says.

“And that is a violation of the law?” I ask.

“The ultimate law is the law of social order.”

I shrug, aghast. “I was simply born this way.”

“An unfortunate situation,” says the woman from Reproduction. “Within my office your indiscretion has been the topic of research and debate for some time.”

“Hardly a situation of my choosing.”

“This is not about blame,” says the woman from Security, “but about judgment,”

“Judgment of what?”

“Whether your existence constitutes a credible threat to society,” she replies.

“In what way?” I ask.
“You represent diversity, the antithesis of homogeneity.”

“Diversity is a polite word for chaos,” charges the man from Police, “which every government, every law in human history was meant to eradicate. One might make the case that chaos and diversity stand in direct opposition to law.”

“Which hardly seems human,” I reply.

“Please don’t think us cruel on this matter,” the woman from Security softens somewhat. “With uniformity comes common cause and common direction. Diversity only leads to animosities and the crippling of that common direction. Wouldn’t you have pity with a two-headed creature, each struggling with its own thoughts and desires? How could such a creature exist? Now imagine three, or five or a hundred heads.”

“Perhaps the other alternative is common need,” I reply.

“Until those common needs diverge or rise in opposition to one another. Such is the need for one common law, not many.”

“A common flaw,” I scoff. Indignance is the last shred of power I possess. “Is society so fragile that it cannot sustain my existence?”

“That is the question,” says the man from Efficiency.

“Do you think me some criminal or revolutionary?”
“It is forbidden for Associates to go to the Low City,” charges the man from Police.

“Not by choice,” I say.

“So you would have us believe anyway,” he replies, with a dismissive wave of the hand.

“You have Sentinel,” I cannot help by say, with a satisfied grin.

“You have tried to subvert Sentinel by obscuring your true thoughts.”

“To escape persecution.”

“Prosecution is persecution to the unjust,” charges the woman from Security.

“And persecution is prosecution to those who hold power,” I say.

The court falls silent. Up to now I have met their charges and that has helped to buoy my spirits. I have no illusions of ultimate victory, but I swell with pride at minor ones. All the while the man from the Corporation remains silent, but I can feel him watching me with a certain curiosity, and, though it is likely a delusion, some respect.

“Why would you wish to exist in a society that doesn’t want you?” says the woman from Socialization, as I look through my notes. The question takes me aback somewhat. “There are no more of your kind here. It must cause you great distress. Wouldn’t Reclamation be a relief?”

“I am less bothered by your color than you are by mine,” I tell them. “I might argue that I am more endangered by this society than this society is threatened by me.”

“A position that strengthens our argument,” says the man from Efficiency.

“Two sides of the same coin,” adds the woman from Resource and Security.

“But only because of your own intolerance,” I say. “Are you ruled by that intolerance, or do you rule it?”
“We rule in the interests of society,” the man from Science says. “We are ruled by the interests of society as the Corporation prescribes.”

“Do I threaten you so much?” I ask.

“You do indeed.”

“And there is no room for humanity within the law?”

“There can be no humanity without order. The social order dictates the law. Within the law there is structure and security. Outside the law there is only chaos and man’s barbaric past, which you represent.”

“You represent a time when humanity was divided,” says the woman from Reproduction, “compartmentalized by race and national identity. Humanity was schizophrenic, unfocused, exhausting its talents in pointless directions. We solved those problems, or believed we had until you came along. Now we wish to study you more closely as a means of future prevention.”

“So it is impossible for me to prevail here?”

The man from Efficiency shakes his head slowly. “Impossible is a very strong word, but it will be very unlikely.”

There is a long, uneasy silence. I look at the judges, unsure what I should say. I have, for the moment exhausted my arguments. More to the point I have exhausted my ability to obscure them from Sentinel before they may be used against me. A gavel strikes, resounding loudly; wood against wood. It sounds in the empty hall like a rifle crack, causing me to flinch. The muscles of my gut tighten briefly then relax with a wave of warm nausea.

“We will meet again in one hour,” say the woman from Reproduction, “but so far this court is not impressed with your arguments. You have been given a great favor, but there is a limit to what this body will endure. We trust you will have a better argument or we will conclude this hearing and pass judgment.”

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.