“Kill that dog!” I slam my hand hard to the table. It smarts terribly, and I almost wince. The judges jump in their seats. Even the man from the Corporation jumps. The pain travels white hot up my arm into my shoulder, but that pain is well worth the reaction. The man from the Corporation covers a smile with his hand. He seems impressed. I am as well, at having caught them all by complete surprise. Sentinel must be furious!
“I beg your pardon?” The Man from Police gasps.
“If a man uses a dog to keep you from what is yours, kill that dog!” I assert the words of Malcolm X.
“I don’t understand,” says the Woman from Security.
“Violence!” accuses the Man from Efficiency. “The very reason humanity did away with race and religion. The inherent violence of human difference. And there you are, at the end of your argument. All that is left is violence.”
The Woman from Reproduction concurs.
“Violence is the last domain of the downtrodden,” I assert.
“Certainly was an attention getter,” remarks the Man from the Corporation.
“A subversion,” I say.
“A small victory,” he smiles respectfully, though with some sympathy.
“But a victory.”
“Indeed.”
“But to what end?” asks the Man from Entertainment. It is impossible to refrain from a smart-ass comment.
“I thought you of all people would recognize the value of theater!”
“It’s the concept of violence, which you seem all to ready to employ, that I wish to explore,” the an from Police rubs his forehead and looks over notes.
“I don’t think he was really advocating…” the Man from the Corporation begins. I abruptly cut him off.
“Indeed I was!”
“Sorry?”
“There you have it,” concedes the Woman from Security.
“Power concedes nothing without demand,’ said Frederick Douglas. There is an implicit power behind any demand, or it has no value. The only true power of the powerless is violence.”
“Or the potential for violence.”
“The same,” I say.
“So you admit to that predilection?” says the Man from Police, as though uncovering some hidden motive in my words.
“It must be a possibility when power is unbalanced,” I say. A warmth rushes through me, as though I am being cornered. It is much too late to retreat, and especially before this bunch. “”You must understand, that when your power overcomes reason and mercy, that I may rise against you, and that our very existence becomes part of the negotiation.”
“I’ll caution you about threatening the court,” the Woman from Reproduction scolds.
“I have threatened no one,” I say, “Instead I have merely pointed out that your power resides in the size and force of the state, and that I am at the mercy to your penchant for fairness. My power, all that I have in the face of the Corporation remains, if pressed, defiance.”
“May I ask,” the Woman from Security begins. Her tone is softer, almost sympathetic. She even leans as far forward as possible. “May I ask, to what purpose? Why defy and resist? Why disrupt the precise order of the society?”
Is her question a trick? She must know what I have seen. All of them surely know that I have been to the Low City, that I have seen the nightmarish scenes in the Reclamation Center, that I know the hypocrisy of the Corporation and the refuse it pretends is solid foundation. Do I argue for my existence against all that, or does calling forth their shame and infallibility only make it easier for them to get rid of me?
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
THE LAST MAN: Part Seventeen
“I remember the exact moment,” she begins again. Her name is Desiree, a name which somehow seems appropriate. We are sitting at the table, both completely drained by our laughter. A steady rain drives churning black smoke from the Reclamation Center down into the city where it lingers like a dirty fog. Heavy gray clods descend along the coast in tattered sheets. Oily black soot bleeding upon the window distorts that world into monotone abstracts. She pauses, weighing those first words, her eyes flitting anxiously to Sentinel.
“I was a Mandate Clerk for Reclamation Services. It is hardly more than a computer lottery, really. Not much to there, but my department’s task was to notify section twenty-one for the occasional non-compliance, coordinate with the Channels for labor replacement, and to reassign living assignments…”
As Desiree continues my thoughts are flooded by the terrible images from the Reclamation Center.
…it was all terribly precise and efficient. I thought nothing as Associates in my work section received their Mandates. They would simply finish out their day and that was it. One day my Mandate would come. I never, never questioned,” she looks at me deeply pained. “Like questioning the motion of the earth around the moon, or the sum of four plus four.” She shrugs, fiddling with her fingers. “Then one morning getting out of bed my legs became tangled in the sheet and I tripped. My head struck the corner of the table, right here.”
She parts the hair covering her forehead. Perhaps two inches above the left eye a poorly healed scab covers a ragged gash.
Sentinel surely alerted Section Twenty-one?” I say.
“Hmm, I laid in a pool of my own blood for two days. Seems sentinel only really worries over subversive or dangerous thoughts. The languishing emptiness of the unconscious Associate is of much less concern.”
“But your position at Reclamation Services?”
She glares at Sentinel a moment, as if tempting it with her obvious disdain. “A secret of the Corporation, birthrates are hardly uniform. From time to time Reclamation creates overages and shortages in the system. Actual reclamation progresses at a constant unchangeable rate. It functions at maximum capacity. That rate never rises and never falls. I believe that the reclamation center is the most efficient link in the system.”
Desiree obviously has no idea. “I have seen it firsthand.”
“The Reclamation Center?” she asks, surprised. “You have been there?”
“Nothing you should concern yourself with,” I say with a knowing glance to Sentinel.
She stands and goes to the window, looking out across the dull and rain-swept city. “When I awoke everything had changed. Everything was so terribly confusing. I tried to control these feelings, but they were just too much. Worst of all, I had the sudden sense of being entirely alone in the world. I broke down at work one day. Within forty-eight hours I received my Mandate. Two days later I was reassigned and brought here.”
I recall the words of Frederick Douglas. In them I find common cause with my new roommate, as well as ample ammunition for court on Monday, “…we were one; and as much so by our tempers and dispositions, as by the mutual hardships to which we were necessarily subjected by our condition as slaves.”
“I was a Mandate Clerk for Reclamation Services. It is hardly more than a computer lottery, really. Not much to there, but my department’s task was to notify section twenty-one for the occasional non-compliance, coordinate with the Channels for labor replacement, and to reassign living assignments…”
As Desiree continues my thoughts are flooded by the terrible images from the Reclamation Center.
…it was all terribly precise and efficient. I thought nothing as Associates in my work section received their Mandates. They would simply finish out their day and that was it. One day my Mandate would come. I never, never questioned,” she looks at me deeply pained. “Like questioning the motion of the earth around the moon, or the sum of four plus four.” She shrugs, fiddling with her fingers. “Then one morning getting out of bed my legs became tangled in the sheet and I tripped. My head struck the corner of the table, right here.”
She parts the hair covering her forehead. Perhaps two inches above the left eye a poorly healed scab covers a ragged gash.
Sentinel surely alerted Section Twenty-one?” I say.
“Hmm, I laid in a pool of my own blood for two days. Seems sentinel only really worries over subversive or dangerous thoughts. The languishing emptiness of the unconscious Associate is of much less concern.”
“But your position at Reclamation Services?”
She glares at Sentinel a moment, as if tempting it with her obvious disdain. “A secret of the Corporation, birthrates are hardly uniform. From time to time Reclamation creates overages and shortages in the system. Actual reclamation progresses at a constant unchangeable rate. It functions at maximum capacity. That rate never rises and never falls. I believe that the reclamation center is the most efficient link in the system.”
Desiree obviously has no idea. “I have seen it firsthand.”
“The Reclamation Center?” she asks, surprised. “You have been there?”
“Nothing you should concern yourself with,” I say with a knowing glance to Sentinel.
She stands and goes to the window, looking out across the dull and rain-swept city. “When I awoke everything had changed. Everything was so terribly confusing. I tried to control these feelings, but they were just too much. Worst of all, I had the sudden sense of being entirely alone in the world. I broke down at work one day. Within forty-eight hours I received my Mandate. Two days later I was reassigned and brought here.”
I recall the words of Frederick Douglas. In them I find common cause with my new roommate, as well as ample ammunition for court on Monday, “…we were one; and as much so by our tempers and dispositions, as by the mutual hardships to which we were necessarily subjected by our condition as slaves.”
Sunday, November 1, 2009
THE LAST MAN: Part Sixteen
At the window of my flat stands a woman, facing the city. She is dressed in an Associate’s tunic and trousers. She is weeping. Her head is bowed, almost disappearing in the canyon of her shoulders. A low moan escapes her. Beyond that there is nothing to distinguish her from any other female Associate. She is the same size, the same color as all the others. Her hair is the same dull blackish-brown hue. Her hips are shapely and perfect for child bearing. It is only her uncontrolled emotions that seem to have doomed her to my doorstep
I have a sense that she was sent by the Corporation. In such a state, surely this sort of breakdown would earn her immediate reclamation. I doubt that any of this is her doing, but certainly she is a purposefully proposed distraction intended to disrupt or destroy my preparations for the resumption of my trial Monday morning. Not that I can rightly hold any of that against her. As cruel as it seems, the best course of action is simply to let her be and let the Corporation do what it will do.
I step into the room, moving along the wall to the bed. Upon a hanger in the small closet across the room a coat, jacket and several Associate uniforms are hung beside mine, as if she has been here forever. Another chair has been added at the table. Her bowl and cup are set neatly opposite mine.
She struggles to collect herself. With that she straightens and turns, not quite facing me. She studies me a moment. Her face is explosive, as if it might dissolve completely into tears, and that the redness of her face belies the incredible effort in holding them back. It is clear my aloof manner makes her uncomfortable. The moment hangs heavy and terrible between us. I believe she wrongly interprets my disinterest as hostility.
“Wasn’t my choice,” she says, breaths tumbling in her chest. I make no reply and remove my tunic. Sitting at the edge of the bed my gaze is empty and distant. “Section Twenty-one…My reclamation Mandate was revoked.”
I smile, but it is one filled with pity and knowing. Suddenly the word, once benign and unquestioned becomes obscene, less for the actual reality than for this poor creature’s sublime ignorance. My eyes meet hers for just an instant, but then I look away.
“AHH!” she screams with rage and claws at her face. Suddenly she is charging across the room. I raise an arm to protect myself, but she rushes past me and beats wildly the Sentinel on the wall. “You can see in my head, then why can’t you fix me? Make me as numb and empty as the rest! Why? Why do you leave me this way?”
Fearing the tantrum will bring Section Twenty-one I drag her back across the room, and push her into the corner by the window. Her mood has very definitely changed, enough that I retreat a few steps just to be safe.
“Are you mad?” I ask, looking back at Sentinel.
“Mad? I am definitely mad!” she froths.
I settle to the floor across from her, my back against the wall. My legs are drawn up. I clasp my hands around them. She anxiously pulls her fingers through her long dark hair, then rubs her auburn eyes. The storm of our introduction settles. And as with all storms is replaced with a deep and resonating quiet.
I expect she will ask me the obvious question. Since leaving the Channels I have existed largely alone, without any task or position, certainly without sex, and with little substantial human contact. Indeed, my time in the Low City proves the richest relations I have had with any other human being.
I have no clue how I will answer, or even if I should. Not that there is any harm in it, and I certainly have nothing to hide from her. Rather, any explanation comes with the history of my life, of a history far beyond my life, and I simply do not have the energy or inclination. But she surprises me in not asking.
The ultimate struggle of the Corporation wrestles in her eyes. It is the fundamental question of logic versus emotion. The essence of that at question lies at the core of all societies, and, in no small way, upon the stark battlefield of the individual human heart. One is a herd of wild beasts, while logic is a whore, abandoned of all of all empathy and morality (except that which it benefits from), and is completely for sale. She was mulling over words and calculating. Surely she is as distrustful of me as I am of her. But there is loneliness there as well, not something familiar to normal Associates. As the orphan of emotions loneliness is perhaps the strongest force shaping that embattled heart.
“Do you have any idea?” she cocks her head to one side. It is not a question a normal Associate would have the first clue in answering, or asking either.
I smile knowingly and scratch my calf through the trousers. “More than you realize.”
She nods thoughtfully and purses her soft pink lips. She seems in no particular hurry to reply. “Perhaps that is why they put us together.”
“I doubt it.”
The moment of quiet flees her as quickly as it came. She seems a slave to her emotions, struggling with something unknown to her before and now sudden and powerful. Unlike the mechanical logic promoted and projected by the Corporation, her raw and tentative emotions betray a much wider Universe and her much diminished place in that Universe. I recognize it readily, for I still struggle with mine.
“These emotions are tearing me to pieces,” she begins. “One minute I sink into despair so deep and dark I fear being completely consumed. The next I am so burdened with joy at existing even for a moment, for this breath inside of me and for the privilege of beholding the stars above that I am sure to erupt and fill space with my light. But it is all too much and I long for the emptiness of the life before…” She searches my tentative gaze. “Are you like all the others? Do you really have any idea what I am saying?”
I remain silent. I feel that I should touch her, but cannot muster the courage. Still, this is the truest bond between people, I am discovering. It is not society or politics, and certainly not the random lottery of flesh and race. No, the truest bond is in the shared suffering in facing an unknown Universe. It is this fleeting uncertainty which we call life. It is that one fewer question in an infinite number of questions that is at last answered.
“I know.”
The words stop her cold. They arrest her stampeding emotions in place. Her brow furls. For the first time I recognize her smooth round face as gentle and attractive. She begins to laugh. It grows and becomes louder, taking her over fully until she is howling and holding her side. It infects me until that tiny flat reverberates with our unrestrained release. Sentinel must think us utterly mad.
I have a sense that she was sent by the Corporation. In such a state, surely this sort of breakdown would earn her immediate reclamation. I doubt that any of this is her doing, but certainly she is a purposefully proposed distraction intended to disrupt or destroy my preparations for the resumption of my trial Monday morning. Not that I can rightly hold any of that against her. As cruel as it seems, the best course of action is simply to let her be and let the Corporation do what it will do.
I step into the room, moving along the wall to the bed. Upon a hanger in the small closet across the room a coat, jacket and several Associate uniforms are hung beside mine, as if she has been here forever. Another chair has been added at the table. Her bowl and cup are set neatly opposite mine.
She struggles to collect herself. With that she straightens and turns, not quite facing me. She studies me a moment. Her face is explosive, as if it might dissolve completely into tears, and that the redness of her face belies the incredible effort in holding them back. It is clear my aloof manner makes her uncomfortable. The moment hangs heavy and terrible between us. I believe she wrongly interprets my disinterest as hostility.
“Wasn’t my choice,” she says, breaths tumbling in her chest. I make no reply and remove my tunic. Sitting at the edge of the bed my gaze is empty and distant. “Section Twenty-one…My reclamation Mandate was revoked.”
I smile, but it is one filled with pity and knowing. Suddenly the word, once benign and unquestioned becomes obscene, less for the actual reality than for this poor creature’s sublime ignorance. My eyes meet hers for just an instant, but then I look away.
“AHH!” she screams with rage and claws at her face. Suddenly she is charging across the room. I raise an arm to protect myself, but she rushes past me and beats wildly the Sentinel on the wall. “You can see in my head, then why can’t you fix me? Make me as numb and empty as the rest! Why? Why do you leave me this way?”
Fearing the tantrum will bring Section Twenty-one I drag her back across the room, and push her into the corner by the window. Her mood has very definitely changed, enough that I retreat a few steps just to be safe.
“Are you mad?” I ask, looking back at Sentinel.
“Mad? I am definitely mad!” she froths.
I settle to the floor across from her, my back against the wall. My legs are drawn up. I clasp my hands around them. She anxiously pulls her fingers through her long dark hair, then rubs her auburn eyes. The storm of our introduction settles. And as with all storms is replaced with a deep and resonating quiet.
I expect she will ask me the obvious question. Since leaving the Channels I have existed largely alone, without any task or position, certainly without sex, and with little substantial human contact. Indeed, my time in the Low City proves the richest relations I have had with any other human being.
I have no clue how I will answer, or even if I should. Not that there is any harm in it, and I certainly have nothing to hide from her. Rather, any explanation comes with the history of my life, of a history far beyond my life, and I simply do not have the energy or inclination. But she surprises me in not asking.
The ultimate struggle of the Corporation wrestles in her eyes. It is the fundamental question of logic versus emotion. The essence of that at question lies at the core of all societies, and, in no small way, upon the stark battlefield of the individual human heart. One is a herd of wild beasts, while logic is a whore, abandoned of all of all empathy and morality (except that which it benefits from), and is completely for sale. She was mulling over words and calculating. Surely she is as distrustful of me as I am of her. But there is loneliness there as well, not something familiar to normal Associates. As the orphan of emotions loneliness is perhaps the strongest force shaping that embattled heart.
“Do you have any idea?” she cocks her head to one side. It is not a question a normal Associate would have the first clue in answering, or asking either.
I smile knowingly and scratch my calf through the trousers. “More than you realize.”
She nods thoughtfully and purses her soft pink lips. She seems in no particular hurry to reply. “Perhaps that is why they put us together.”
“I doubt it.”
The moment of quiet flees her as quickly as it came. She seems a slave to her emotions, struggling with something unknown to her before and now sudden and powerful. Unlike the mechanical logic promoted and projected by the Corporation, her raw and tentative emotions betray a much wider Universe and her much diminished place in that Universe. I recognize it readily, for I still struggle with mine.
“These emotions are tearing me to pieces,” she begins. “One minute I sink into despair so deep and dark I fear being completely consumed. The next I am so burdened with joy at existing even for a moment, for this breath inside of me and for the privilege of beholding the stars above that I am sure to erupt and fill space with my light. But it is all too much and I long for the emptiness of the life before…” She searches my tentative gaze. “Are you like all the others? Do you really have any idea what I am saying?”
I remain silent. I feel that I should touch her, but cannot muster the courage. Still, this is the truest bond between people, I am discovering. It is not society or politics, and certainly not the random lottery of flesh and race. No, the truest bond is in the shared suffering in facing an unknown Universe. It is this fleeting uncertainty which we call life. It is that one fewer question in an infinite number of questions that is at last answered.
“I know.”
The words stop her cold. They arrest her stampeding emotions in place. Her brow furls. For the first time I recognize her smooth round face as gentle and attractive. She begins to laugh. It grows and becomes louder, taking her over fully until she is howling and holding her side. It infects me until that tiny flat reverberates with our unrestrained release. Sentinel must think us utterly mad.
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