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 “Section Twenty-one…My reclamation Mandate was revoked.”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.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Saturday, October 31, 2009
THE LAST MAN: Part Fifteen
“Why put yourself through such a trial,” the man from Efficiency begins. It’s a feeble way to begin, and I realize they were relying on Sentinel to provide them with their next move. He is slow and deliberate in his speech. No doubt he wishes to draw me from this idea, this weapon I keep hidden from them.
“You seem confused and unsettled,” says the woman from Reproduction. I know it is a ruse. I rebuff them both.
“It occurs to me,” I say loud and forceful, “that laws are at their most primitive when they suppose to act in favor of the greater good and to the detriment of the individual.”
The remark draws scoffs and guffaws from the judges, but only as an attempt to put me off. They whisper and chatter urgently among themselves. The man from the Corporation says nothing. Instead he rubs the side of his long nose with a finger and rocks his head from side to side. His eyes meet mine, I think by chance. He shows me no true respect, at least not of the first order that I spoke of earlier, but there is interest.
“Obviously you have exhausted your arguments,” the man from Science and Police says, his voice unsure.
“Indeed,” adds the woman from Reproduction, flustered. “It is high time we concluded these hearings.”
“No, not yet,” the man from the Corporation interrupts. His voice is deep and fills the room. It is of a character fundamentally different from the judges. “Explain what you mean.”
I breathe deeply and take a moment to collect my thoughts. My throat is as dry as the windswept sands of the Great Lakes basin. I can only imagine how enraged Sentinel must be at my small victory. If they were to pass judgment and carry out my sentence I would have absolutely no regrets.
“The society has no rights and laws but those given to it by individuals who wish ultimately to protect their own autonomy. Even still the society acts out of instinct for its own preservation, for the resources that feed it and for the defense of enemies that jeopardize its existence. It is blind. It is a machine that grinds inexorably forward.” I swallow hard hoping to work some moisture into my throat, but with little success.
“Philosophy!” cries the man from Science, as if I had blurted some heresy against the Corporation.
“Go on,” urges the man from the Corporation.
“A bit of water first,” I say, without pleading. An argument ensues among the judges. They wish every advantage- fair or otherwise. The argument goes on and on until even the man from the Corporation is irritated.
“Bring him some water!”
I nod appreciatively, but he only frowns and crosses his arms tightly. He is not on my side. He stands squarely with the Corporation. I must be careful not to appear desperate or ridiculous. These things the judges will feed off like the carrion that swarm in huge numbers around the Reclamation Center. When I have my water I begin again.
“The individual…”
The woman from Security and Resource cuts me off. “The individual is animated by instinct, selfishness and self-preservation.”
“As I was saying…”
“But isn’t that a fundamental flaw in your position?”
I pause, not to think, but to show my disdain for her. Hate has a certain power for the oppressed. It elevates them above their oppressor, to an extent. She’s a fool, a tool for the Corporation like the others. Their wisdom is not derived from the strength of their position, but rather merely the opposition to mine. If I say white they will say black and then applaud themselves for their cleverness.
“You’re biased against me I because you believe I represent chaos. You are afraid to admit that society works against the wishes of the individual. In that way it becomes the enemy of freedom.”
“Freedom is subjective,” says the woman from Reproduction.
The man from Police nods in agreement. “A free society may find it necessary to restrict individual freedom to impose order. You said yourself that a society acts for its own survival.”
The sun is warm on my face now. There are voices in my head. They are voices from the archives, called forth, it seems, by the sun, like the scent of herbs awakened in a simmering pot. Malcolm, Martin, Abernathy, Biko, Bethune and Ellison. The come on like a chorus. I hear Longuen’s voice rise from the chorus, imploring me to “Change the tones of submission into tones of defiance!”
I pace before the judges, slowly, imagining an ancient face in hopes of putting sentinel off. I become that face, become the soul that would respond to that argument. I am him, and so unaware of what he might say until the words form upon my lips.
“I know my words,” I gesture suddenly at the judges. They gasp with surprise. “It wasn’t some half-hearted bilge, and I don’t appreciate that you try and twist them. It is the hallmark of a weak society, when challenged in its injustice, that it lashes out against reason.”
My indignence is calculated. Too little and I will appear as a fool. Too much and I forsake the argument for un-tempered emotion.
“We’ll remind you that this trial is for the benefit of the Corporation,” says the man from efficiency and entertainment. “Your pertinence to this society has already been rendered.”
They mean to discourage me, I know. Argument here is pointless, and they know it as well as I. Defiance, defiance, defiance. What better fun than to watch them battle each other.
“You might well apply that logic to your selves,” I say, returning to my chair. I don’t even look at them. “Truly Science and Police has no jurisdiction when it comes to Reproduction and Socialization. If it does that means one of you is also redundant and unnecessary.”
“Very clever,” says the woman from Reproduction and Socialization, “but here your ignorance is complete. There is a hierarchy, even within the Corporation. Reproduction and Socialization are paramount to an ord…”
“I beg your pardon,” the man from Science and Police interrupts forcefully.
“I only meant…”
“Where would reproduction be without Science?”
“Or efficiency?”
“Or security?”
I cannot contain a smile. The man from the Corporation claps loudly. He is smiling as well. Certainly this is great entertainment for him.
“Well done,” he says, and wags a finger at the dumbstruck judges. “You have to admit you played right into his hands. He’s found your weak spot. He’s discovered all of our weak spots. That is the need to be relevant.”
The Man from Efficiency huffs. “I move to conclude the hearings and pass judgment.”
The others nod in agreement. My heart freezes in anticipation of a verdict I already know has been decided. Still I hold on to the moment. I study their movements, the furtive glance, an unguarded breath, anything that I may hang hope upon. It is a feeble hope, as transient as the passing clouds. Still I hold to it, this hope, as if it was some part of me as necessary as the heart that pumps blood or the lungs that fill we withy air.
“No,” says the man from the Corporation. He stands and looks down upon the judges, my judges. “I think he has done well enough that we should not conclude this hearing too prematurely.”
With that he turns and disappears, leaving silence in his wake. Theirs, of course, is disbelief. This trial is nothing to them. It is a distraction and nothing more. To me it is life, and that is why the silence around me is filled with something more. The gavel falls again.
“These hearings are concluded until Monday.”
“You seem confused and unsettled,” says the woman from Reproduction. I know it is a ruse. I rebuff them both.
“It occurs to me,” I say loud and forceful, “that laws are at their most primitive when they suppose to act in favor of the greater good and to the detriment of the individual.”
The remark draws scoffs and guffaws from the judges, but only as an attempt to put me off. They whisper and chatter urgently among themselves. The man from the Corporation says nothing. Instead he rubs the side of his long nose with a finger and rocks his head from side to side. His eyes meet mine, I think by chance. He shows me no true respect, at least not of the first order that I spoke of earlier, but there is interest.
“Obviously you have exhausted your arguments,” the man from Science and Police says, his voice unsure.
“Indeed,” adds the woman from Reproduction, flustered. “It is high time we concluded these hearings.”
“No, not yet,” the man from the Corporation interrupts. His voice is deep and fills the room. It is of a character fundamentally different from the judges. “Explain what you mean.”
I breathe deeply and take a moment to collect my thoughts. My throat is as dry as the windswept sands of the Great Lakes basin. I can only imagine how enraged Sentinel must be at my small victory. If they were to pass judgment and carry out my sentence I would have absolutely no regrets.
“The society has no rights and laws but those given to it by individuals who wish ultimately to protect their own autonomy. Even still the society acts out of instinct for its own preservation, for the resources that feed it and for the defense of enemies that jeopardize its existence. It is blind. It is a machine that grinds inexorably forward.” I swallow hard hoping to work some moisture into my throat, but with little success.
“Philosophy!” cries the man from Science, as if I had blurted some heresy against the Corporation.
“Go on,” urges the man from the Corporation.
“A bit of water first,” I say, without pleading. An argument ensues among the judges. They wish every advantage- fair or otherwise. The argument goes on and on until even the man from the Corporation is irritated.
“Bring him some water!”
I nod appreciatively, but he only frowns and crosses his arms tightly. He is not on my side. He stands squarely with the Corporation. I must be careful not to appear desperate or ridiculous. These things the judges will feed off like the carrion that swarm in huge numbers around the Reclamation Center. When I have my water I begin again.
“The individual…”
The woman from Security and Resource cuts me off. “The individual is animated by instinct, selfishness and self-preservation.”
“As I was saying…”
“But isn’t that a fundamental flaw in your position?”
I pause, not to think, but to show my disdain for her. Hate has a certain power for the oppressed. It elevates them above their oppressor, to an extent. She’s a fool, a tool for the Corporation like the others. Their wisdom is not derived from the strength of their position, but rather merely the opposition to mine. If I say white they will say black and then applaud themselves for their cleverness.
“You’re biased against me I because you believe I represent chaos. You are afraid to admit that society works against the wishes of the individual. In that way it becomes the enemy of freedom.”
“Freedom is subjective,” says the woman from Reproduction.
The man from Police nods in agreement. “A free society may find it necessary to restrict individual freedom to impose order. You said yourself that a society acts for its own survival.”
The sun is warm on my face now. There are voices in my head. They are voices from the archives, called forth, it seems, by the sun, like the scent of herbs awakened in a simmering pot. Malcolm, Martin, Abernathy, Biko, Bethune and Ellison. The come on like a chorus. I hear Longuen’s voice rise from the chorus, imploring me to “Change the tones of submission into tones of defiance!”
I pace before the judges, slowly, imagining an ancient face in hopes of putting sentinel off. I become that face, become the soul that would respond to that argument. I am him, and so unaware of what he might say until the words form upon my lips.
“I know my words,” I gesture suddenly at the judges. They gasp with surprise. “It wasn’t some half-hearted bilge, and I don’t appreciate that you try and twist them. It is the hallmark of a weak society, when challenged in its injustice, that it lashes out against reason.”
My indignence is calculated. Too little and I will appear as a fool. Too much and I forsake the argument for un-tempered emotion.
“We’ll remind you that this trial is for the benefit of the Corporation,” says the man from efficiency and entertainment. “Your pertinence to this society has already been rendered.”
They mean to discourage me, I know. Argument here is pointless, and they know it as well as I. Defiance, defiance, defiance. What better fun than to watch them battle each other.
“You might well apply that logic to your selves,” I say, returning to my chair. I don’t even look at them. “Truly Science and Police has no jurisdiction when it comes to Reproduction and Socialization. If it does that means one of you is also redundant and unnecessary.”
“Very clever,” says the woman from Reproduction and Socialization, “but here your ignorance is complete. There is a hierarchy, even within the Corporation. Reproduction and Socialization are paramount to an ord…”
“I beg your pardon,” the man from Science and Police interrupts forcefully.
“I only meant…”
“Where would reproduction be without Science?”
“Or efficiency?”
“Or security?”
I cannot contain a smile. The man from the Corporation claps loudly. He is smiling as well. Certainly this is great entertainment for him.
“Well done,” he says, and wags a finger at the dumbstruck judges. “You have to admit you played right into his hands. He’s found your weak spot. He’s discovered all of our weak spots. That is the need to be relevant.”
The Man from Efficiency huffs. “I move to conclude the hearings and pass judgment.”
The others nod in agreement. My heart freezes in anticipation of a verdict I already know has been decided. Still I hold on to the moment. I study their movements, the furtive glance, an unguarded breath, anything that I may hang hope upon. It is a feeble hope, as transient as the passing clouds. Still I hold to it, this hope, as if it was some part of me as necessary as the heart that pumps blood or the lungs that fill we withy air.
“No,” says the man from the Corporation. He stands and looks down upon the judges, my judges. “I think he has done well enough that we should not conclude this hearing too prematurely.”
With that he turns and disappears, leaving silence in his wake. Theirs, of course, is disbelief. This trial is nothing to them. It is a distraction and nothing more. To me it is life, and that is why the silence around me is filled with something more. The gavel falls again.
“These hearings are concluded until Monday.”
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, October 23, 2009
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.”
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.”
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
THE LAST MAN: Part Eleven
Only a fool believes human life has ever held any real value. Selective lives perhaps. One’s own life is most precious to them, but beyond that all life becomes negotiable. All wars, governments and economies are based upon that singular fact. Life is, in fact, an exorbitantly expensive proposition, not at all compatible with the bottom line imperative of economic theory. It is a cruel juxtaposition that a society values, or devalues life against the abstraction and invention of markets and economics.
It was the same for the Corporation, whose core philosophy of efficiency was a lie, or worse, a blind hypocrisy! It was no more evident than in the sewers below the Reclamation center. Great fissures had opened where the combination of stress and neglect had conspired to undermine the “great society.”. In places hasty repairs were made to prevent catastrophic collapse of the structures above. Those repairs were primitive, hasty and deadly gambles. The bones of those who perished anonymously in that desperate endeavor remained scattered about the ground. One poor soul had become entrapped in a mammoth mass of concrete and wire, forever imprisoned, the skull’s mouth agape, the eyes empty and haunting. The concrete held the bony fingers in place where they clawed desperately in eternal escape.
We slipped quickly into one broad fissure, single file through a narrow gap between two walls. There was no light here. We moved by torchlight. Bethune was ahead of me. Like the others her full attention remained on the route ahead. Taller than the rest I was forced to bend and twist to make it through at all. Behind me the remainder of Bethune’s security force followed. I felt cornered once more, and broke into a sweat, the breaths trapped and falling short in my chest.
We were below the Reclamation center that much was certain. The massive furnaces warmed the near wall. No one spoke a word, but if we had the din would have forced us to shout. Smoke leaked into the passage. Bethune and her guards quickly covered their faces. I had only my sleeve, but as the passage grew narrower raising my arms at all became nearly impossible. The smoke stung at my eyes and burned in my nose and throat. The wall grew hotter with each step until it was almost too much to touch at all. It was little consolation that the smoke had lessened somewhat.
At last we came to small black chamber. It was crowded well enough, and several of Bethune’s guards were forced to crouch against the wall to make room. The air was quickly heavy and humid with the press of bodies. Flickering amber torchlight fell upon the sloping floor where a wall had collapse in broad, broken chunks of concrete. To one side a newer wall had tipped and now rested precariously against the far wall. It was fractured in a hundred places and seemed about to crumble at any moment. Death, in that case, would be instantaneous.
The shuddering rumble from the Reclamation Center overhead did nothing to quiet my fears of being crushed and buried forever in that place. Behind us lay the way we had come, hardly more that a dark crag in the wall. Opposite, and a treacherous climb over jagged rock and tangled rebar was the only other way from the chamber. Bethune touched my arm, tearing me from taking stock of this bewildering scene. A number of her entourage where already climbing up to that new hole, pulling themselves up and into it. She motioned for me to follow.
It was an arduous climb. Bethune was ahead of me, carried on the back of a guard. I was awed by that awesome display of strength and fortitude. Her example encouraged and rallied me higher, and further than I might have managed alone. This was not a natural space. Hand and footholds had been carved and hacked into the walls. Fatigue burned in my shoulders and arms after only a short climb. A distant sliver of drowning light high above grew as a promise. The need to reach it outweighed life itself, for the combination of terror and an un-abiding hatred for that place compelled and inspired me forward with a renewed energy. When I at last reached the top a sudden upwelling of emotion nearly caused me to cry out. Only the incredible sight before me held those fluid and volatile emotions in check.
We emerged upon a high ledge, among sturdy iron lattice framing the top half of the building. From within the Reclamation Center appeared even larger and more ubiquitous that it appeared from the city. It would have been nothing for a small aircraft to run a circuit around the interior. Perhaps, depending upon the stalwart nerves of the operator, it might even cut among the lower fifth of the smoke stacks held within the building.
The architecture was, from books I had devoured on the subject, an abused and organic sort of Romanesque, like the ancient Porta Nirga in what was once the ancient city of Trier. Below the wide ledge Bethune and I stood, overlapping rows of great stone pillars a hundred of feet high dwarfed the long queue of doomed Associates assembled neatly in rows of 5. The long column wound out into the permanent twilight where thousands waited stoically to meet their end. Their heads were bowed, hands laid upon the shoulders of those before them as black clad Section Twenty-one troops pressed them ever forward. The tunics of each Associate had been removed leaving them naked and vulnerable. No one wailed or begged for mercy or resisted. The line crept forward, ever forward, snaking through guide-walls that wound and narrowed, extinguishing any hope for escape. The walls and pillars were blackened overall, and scorched deeply in places where huge conflagrations had swept the great hall in the past.
A crippled and tarnished light fell through a row of high windows at the top of the building. These sooty pinnacles shifted slowly around us, chased and eclipsed by smoke pouring without end from three brick smokestacks that even here appeared impossibly tall. The light faded steadily, like truth before a well crafted lie, so that the scene below remained in a permanent dusk. It merged with a monstrous opera, the thunder of machinery, the roar of the furnaces and the cries of the doomed.
The air held its own character as well. The stink of burning flesh, of vomit and waste joined that of singed stone and brick. They joined with the heat of three great furnaces, whose arched and gaping entrances were akin to looking into the setting sun. I lifted a hand to cover my nose and mouth, but with little affect.
Even in the murky light of the hall it was possible to discern some long abandoned order to this place, to see where Associates arrived for Reclamation. In that order it was even possible to project a sort of perverted mercifulness on the part of the Corporation. A sort of triage area where Associates were once injected lethally now stood empty and forgotten, but for exhausted and distraught Reclaimers that were scattered about and among simple slabs of stone. But order and efficiency could hardly describe the scene below any longer.
Bethune and I moved closer to the ledge, looking out across the barbaric theater, the capitol lie, the murderous hidden hand of the Corporation. The others remained well hidden behind us. Bethune and I were protected from view by those shifting talons of light. Below the windows I spied a blue sentinel safely confused among a flock of cooing and chattering pigeons. I left Bethune and stepped right to the edge, near enough that with hardly any effort I could have flung myself off. The cruelty and hopelessness the Reclamation Center evoked were nearly enough to compel me to do just that. Oh, Dante you could hardly have conceived of a crueler or darker hell!
Ten Reclaimers met each new group. These Reclaimers reminded me of the faces I had seen in the Low City. A glance to Bethune brought a solemn nod that confirmed that terrible truth. They were stripped to the waist, soot-stained, their sinewy bodies painted and scarred by their unending task. There was a heaviness in every movement as they led each Associate to the ovens. It was the weight of a soul that has died in a body that has yet to realize the pointless end awaiting.
A single electric jolt to the neck felled each Associate into unconsciousness. Quickly they were carried forward and thrown alive into the flames. But what might have seemed at first to be a merciful, if horrifying end, was instead far more nightmarish and chaotic. Most were quickly consumed. Others, as if suddenly awakened from a stupor, flailed and convulsed in the flames. Others escaped fully alight, only to meet their end and be driven back at the point of long iron pikes. A few of these human torches reached their would-be slave executioners in running, murderous battles beyond any human description. One body, so animated by vengeance, flesh curling and blackening from the flames devouring him, fended off stabbing pikes to drag a Reclaimer back into the oven, like some devil come to claim a soul.
This, this was the ultimate outcome of denying the human heart. This was the logical destination along the road of a history followed blindly. It was not that evil resided in that heart, but that it was burdened by this cursed animal flesh, for all its blind intentions. That flesh is far too short-sighted and far too selfish, conspiring to convince the heart that it is the bearer of ultimate sin. Pondering this I pulled gently at my tunic, as though I might tear that flesh away.
I moved a hand across my sorrowful heart and lamented that the will of the flesh was strong enough to turn mankind from the ultimate lessons of history. Man had instead become embroiled in the episodes of history, confusing one for another. Mankind had confused weakness with compassion, control over reason, and in the process had abandoned its own heart…
It was the same for the Corporation, whose core philosophy of efficiency was a lie, or worse, a blind hypocrisy! It was no more evident than in the sewers below the Reclamation center. Great fissures had opened where the combination of stress and neglect had conspired to undermine the “great society.”. In places hasty repairs were made to prevent catastrophic collapse of the structures above. Those repairs were primitive, hasty and deadly gambles. The bones of those who perished anonymously in that desperate endeavor remained scattered about the ground. One poor soul had become entrapped in a mammoth mass of concrete and wire, forever imprisoned, the skull’s mouth agape, the eyes empty and haunting. The concrete held the bony fingers in place where they clawed desperately in eternal escape.
We slipped quickly into one broad fissure, single file through a narrow gap between two walls. There was no light here. We moved by torchlight. Bethune was ahead of me. Like the others her full attention remained on the route ahead. Taller than the rest I was forced to bend and twist to make it through at all. Behind me the remainder of Bethune’s security force followed. I felt cornered once more, and broke into a sweat, the breaths trapped and falling short in my chest.
We were below the Reclamation center that much was certain. The massive furnaces warmed the near wall. No one spoke a word, but if we had the din would have forced us to shout. Smoke leaked into the passage. Bethune and her guards quickly covered their faces. I had only my sleeve, but as the passage grew narrower raising my arms at all became nearly impossible. The smoke stung at my eyes and burned in my nose and throat. The wall grew hotter with each step until it was almost too much to touch at all. It was little consolation that the smoke had lessened somewhat.
At last we came to small black chamber. It was crowded well enough, and several of Bethune’s guards were forced to crouch against the wall to make room. The air was quickly heavy and humid with the press of bodies. Flickering amber torchlight fell upon the sloping floor where a wall had collapse in broad, broken chunks of concrete. To one side a newer wall had tipped and now rested precariously against the far wall. It was fractured in a hundred places and seemed about to crumble at any moment. Death, in that case, would be instantaneous.
The shuddering rumble from the Reclamation Center overhead did nothing to quiet my fears of being crushed and buried forever in that place. Behind us lay the way we had come, hardly more that a dark crag in the wall. Opposite, and a treacherous climb over jagged rock and tangled rebar was the only other way from the chamber. Bethune touched my arm, tearing me from taking stock of this bewildering scene. A number of her entourage where already climbing up to that new hole, pulling themselves up and into it. She motioned for me to follow.
It was an arduous climb. Bethune was ahead of me, carried on the back of a guard. I was awed by that awesome display of strength and fortitude. Her example encouraged and rallied me higher, and further than I might have managed alone. This was not a natural space. Hand and footholds had been carved and hacked into the walls. Fatigue burned in my shoulders and arms after only a short climb. A distant sliver of drowning light high above grew as a promise. The need to reach it outweighed life itself, for the combination of terror and an un-abiding hatred for that place compelled and inspired me forward with a renewed energy. When I at last reached the top a sudden upwelling of emotion nearly caused me to cry out. Only the incredible sight before me held those fluid and volatile emotions in check.
We emerged upon a high ledge, among sturdy iron lattice framing the top half of the building. From within the Reclamation Center appeared even larger and more ubiquitous that it appeared from the city. It would have been nothing for a small aircraft to run a circuit around the interior. Perhaps, depending upon the stalwart nerves of the operator, it might even cut among the lower fifth of the smoke stacks held within the building.
The architecture was, from books I had devoured on the subject, an abused and organic sort of Romanesque, like the ancient Porta Nirga in what was once the ancient city of Trier. Below the wide ledge Bethune and I stood, overlapping rows of great stone pillars a hundred of feet high dwarfed the long queue of doomed Associates assembled neatly in rows of 5. The long column wound out into the permanent twilight where thousands waited stoically to meet their end. Their heads were bowed, hands laid upon the shoulders of those before them as black clad Section Twenty-one troops pressed them ever forward. The tunics of each Associate had been removed leaving them naked and vulnerable. No one wailed or begged for mercy or resisted. The line crept forward, ever forward, snaking through guide-walls that wound and narrowed, extinguishing any hope for escape. The walls and pillars were blackened overall, and scorched deeply in places where huge conflagrations had swept the great hall in the past.
A crippled and tarnished light fell through a row of high windows at the top of the building. These sooty pinnacles shifted slowly around us, chased and eclipsed by smoke pouring without end from three brick smokestacks that even here appeared impossibly tall. The light faded steadily, like truth before a well crafted lie, so that the scene below remained in a permanent dusk. It merged with a monstrous opera, the thunder of machinery, the roar of the furnaces and the cries of the doomed.
The air held its own character as well. The stink of burning flesh, of vomit and waste joined that of singed stone and brick. They joined with the heat of three great furnaces, whose arched and gaping entrances were akin to looking into the setting sun. I lifted a hand to cover my nose and mouth, but with little affect.
Even in the murky light of the hall it was possible to discern some long abandoned order to this place, to see where Associates arrived for Reclamation. In that order it was even possible to project a sort of perverted mercifulness on the part of the Corporation. A sort of triage area where Associates were once injected lethally now stood empty and forgotten, but for exhausted and distraught Reclaimers that were scattered about and among simple slabs of stone. But order and efficiency could hardly describe the scene below any longer.
Bethune and I moved closer to the ledge, looking out across the barbaric theater, the capitol lie, the murderous hidden hand of the Corporation. The others remained well hidden behind us. Bethune and I were protected from view by those shifting talons of light. Below the windows I spied a blue sentinel safely confused among a flock of cooing and chattering pigeons. I left Bethune and stepped right to the edge, near enough that with hardly any effort I could have flung myself off. The cruelty and hopelessness the Reclamation Center evoked were nearly enough to compel me to do just that. Oh, Dante you could hardly have conceived of a crueler or darker hell!
Ten Reclaimers met each new group. These Reclaimers reminded me of the faces I had seen in the Low City. A glance to Bethune brought a solemn nod that confirmed that terrible truth. They were stripped to the waist, soot-stained, their sinewy bodies painted and scarred by their unending task. There was a heaviness in every movement as they led each Associate to the ovens. It was the weight of a soul that has died in a body that has yet to realize the pointless end awaiting.
A single electric jolt to the neck felled each Associate into unconsciousness. Quickly they were carried forward and thrown alive into the flames. But what might have seemed at first to be a merciful, if horrifying end, was instead far more nightmarish and chaotic. Most were quickly consumed. Others, as if suddenly awakened from a stupor, flailed and convulsed in the flames. Others escaped fully alight, only to meet their end and be driven back at the point of long iron pikes. A few of these human torches reached their would-be slave executioners in running, murderous battles beyond any human description. One body, so animated by vengeance, flesh curling and blackening from the flames devouring him, fended off stabbing pikes to drag a Reclaimer back into the oven, like some devil come to claim a soul.
This, this was the ultimate outcome of denying the human heart. This was the logical destination along the road of a history followed blindly. It was not that evil resided in that heart, but that it was burdened by this cursed animal flesh, for all its blind intentions. That flesh is far too short-sighted and far too selfish, conspiring to convince the heart that it is the bearer of ultimate sin. Pondering this I pulled gently at my tunic, as though I might tear that flesh away.
I moved a hand across my sorrowful heart and lamented that the will of the flesh was strong enough to turn mankind from the ultimate lessons of history. Man had instead become embroiled in the episodes of history, confusing one for another. Mankind had confused weakness with compassion, control over reason, and in the process had abandoned its own heart…
Sunday, October 11, 2009
The Last Man: Part Ten
Bethune handed me one of the bricks. The texture was coarse, and seemed as if it might crumble under the slightest pressure. In fact they were quite strong. This was the source of the stale ammonia smell I had noticed while bound and blindfolded. I tested the brick’s weight in my hand. Each was much lighter than it appeared. They were light enough that children could carry a dozen or more on their backs. I watched them come and go, returning empty handed and leaving quickly with a fresh bundle.
She lifted it from my hand and placed it among the others, her fingers trailing from the brick almost lovingly, as if it was a prize possession. Bethune faced the wall and regarded it with great satisfaction, the way a muralist might stand before his work, fully dwarfed and engulfed by that work. She turned, her face much brighter than before. Her collection had enlivened her.
They were stacked to the ceiling, 12 high and three deep, running the length of a long shadowy chamber that formed the foundation of a building. The city had been built and rebuilt so many times that it was literally honeycombed with such chambers. The people of the Low City had carved tunnels that interconnected the chambers and sewers in an impossible maze. That was the real power Bethune and her followers could rely upon. In open battle they would be decimated by Section Twenty-one troops, but in the Low City Bethune’s fighters would bleed their enemy in Guerilla-style combat, or unleash attacks on the city itself.
“This is what you wish the Corporation and Section Twenty-one to see?”
“Not so much see as know,” she took my arm again, leading me away. John Brown remained behind. “These bricks, their waste, is our weapon. The Corporation should know that we long for a peaceful life, but we will settle for a just death if provoked.”
My thoughts were terribly conflicted. I recalled our conversation about memory and Sentinel and altering my thoughts. Was betrayal of these people as simple as the burden of memory? Could I reform and reshape memory to thwart sentinel? I replied to her as honestly as I knew how.
“I feel torn.”
“Of course you do.”
“Part of me would betray you.”
“And part of you sympathizes with our struggle.”
“Without doubt.”
“An honest man,”
“An honest man will have no other,” I replied, quoting Thomas Jefferson.
“Best I should be on good behavior then,” she smiled.
Perhaps my reticence was in understanding the relationship between the people of the Low City and the Corporation. To be sure it was complex, and hardly a simple conflict between good and evil. It was as intimate as old world marriages, as conflict, hate and vengeance bonds adversaries for eternity. Perhaps it was something more. Perhaps it was that Bethune, by employing children and bargaining with the lives of all the rest, had come to reflect her enemy much more than she realized. Had had each side descended to the inhumanity or proposed inhumanity of their adversary? It was an easy line to cross in war, for all its myriad moral and ethical negotiations and entanglements.
I needed to rest a moment. It was all too much, both the journey and sorting all of this out. I felt as weak as I had in the sewers earlier. Bethune gently stroked my cheek. She had softened considerably, her caring reminding me of the woman in the Channels who had saved me with that same loving touch as a child. This time I believe it was genuine on her part.
“You don’t look well.”
“I’ve had better days.”
A bit of fresh air will do nicely.” There was a hidden intention behind her words. Perhaps there was genuine respect and caring, but how much it was from unselfish humanity was impossible to say. What was true, above all else, was that I was a propaganda tool for Bethune and her movement. It was important never to forget that simple fact.
From the catacombs we entered the sewers again. A phalanx of bodyguards led the way, while more followed as a rear guard. They were vigilant and ready for a fight at every turn. Throughout the sewers Sentinel had been smashed or disabled almost as quickly as Section Twenty-one put them up. Unprepared or unwilling to fight a brutal and protracted war against the Low City, Section Twenty-one quickly abandoned the effort. At one junction, there among the brownish-gray filth, we came upon evidence of how hastily Section Twenty-one had quit the fight. Still partially clad in their black uniforms, and picked over my dogs and other vermin were the remains of two troopers.
The sewers at last opened to a narrow stretch of beach. It came sudden and unexpected around the last bend. The salty sea air came over me as a merciful release of pressure might save a smothering man. I gulped in that first breath, and felt its power rush into every cell of my body, returning me to full life. Bethune’s fighters seemed unmoved by it, and Bethune herself almost seemed repelled at first. They had grown accustomed to the sewers, the dark labyrinth and stealing from place to place to keep clear of Sentinel and Section Twenty-one. Both sides doubtless had long ago forgotten what the real reason for the conflict was. All wars are the same. The real reasons fade and are buried from the first blood, the first drop of blood and an endless parade of crimes and perceived crimes by all sides.
Filth ran in a ruddy-brown rivulet from the lip of the sewer opening. It trickled across the narrow sand where it mixed with the sea. The lazily swelling surf drew it along the shore line in an oily sheen. The sun had swung back to where I had last seen it at the settlement among John Brown’s family. A solar day had passed for the world. A lifetime had passed for me, it seemed.
A dozen or so of Bethune’s security force dropped to the sand and took up defensive positions along the sea wall. It was much easier to discern the successive levels of the city here than in the tunnels and sewers. They were built upon one another like stratified layers of rock. They bulged outward under their combined mass and the weight of the new city rising through low clouds. We were very near the Reclamation center. The low rumble of its massive furnaces shook the earth. Wind off the sea scattered the smoke plume from towering stacks into a thick orange brown haze.
It was hardly more than fifteen or eighteen centimeters to the beach. I climbed down first and held a hand to Bethune. She took it gratefully. With a grimace and self-effacing groan Bethune struggled from the opening down to the beach.
“Thank you, my dear,” she held tight to my arm. She smiled philosophically. “The Corporation has done away with the aged. I’ll tell you, it is quite a privilege. I cherish every day for its new perspectives and greater knowledge, but it comes at the terrible price of a vibrant and increasingly unusable body.”
“It almost makes the Corporation’s case,” I offered, referring of course to Reclamation.
We went slowly along the seawall. Periodically my gaze would drift to the ruins out at sea. By this light the fires seemed brighter and more certain than ever. They flickered wildly, no doubt the excited motions of people moving back and forth. I thought to ask Bethune about them, about whether she had been there or knew anything of the people there. The question, at least for now, seemed entirely out of place.
“If you happen to believe the Corporation should hold the power of life and death,” she said. “Shouldn’t that freedom be sacrosanct to the individual?”
“When are the individual’s rights outweighed by the needs of the community?”
“Or the Corporation?”
I nodded. “Or the Corporation.”
“The rights of the individual are at the core of our struggle in the Low City.”
“And so you would sacrifice thousands for that noble cause?” I baited.
“If absolutely necessary,” she replied quickly.
“For the needs of the society the rights of those individuals are bartered.”
Bethune stopped and stared at me for some time. There was a storm of thoughts and emotions in her eyes. They were at once explosive and surprised. All at once her expression changed and she smiled broadly.
“I believe you almost are ready to face the Corporation. But first there is one last thing you must see.”
We turned and started back for the sewers. The bodyguards retreated as well, forming something of a protective human envelope around us. I paused a moment for one last glance to the ruins. I lingered just a little too long. One of the guards ushered me up into the sewer and back among the world of shadows.
She lifted it from my hand and placed it among the others, her fingers trailing from the brick almost lovingly, as if it was a prize possession. Bethune faced the wall and regarded it with great satisfaction, the way a muralist might stand before his work, fully dwarfed and engulfed by that work. She turned, her face much brighter than before. Her collection had enlivened her.
They were stacked to the ceiling, 12 high and three deep, running the length of a long shadowy chamber that formed the foundation of a building. The city had been built and rebuilt so many times that it was literally honeycombed with such chambers. The people of the Low City had carved tunnels that interconnected the chambers and sewers in an impossible maze. That was the real power Bethune and her followers could rely upon. In open battle they would be decimated by Section Twenty-one troops, but in the Low City Bethune’s fighters would bleed their enemy in Guerilla-style combat, or unleash attacks on the city itself.
“This is what you wish the Corporation and Section Twenty-one to see?”
“Not so much see as know,” she took my arm again, leading me away. John Brown remained behind. “These bricks, their waste, is our weapon. The Corporation should know that we long for a peaceful life, but we will settle for a just death if provoked.”
My thoughts were terribly conflicted. I recalled our conversation about memory and Sentinel and altering my thoughts. Was betrayal of these people as simple as the burden of memory? Could I reform and reshape memory to thwart sentinel? I replied to her as honestly as I knew how.
“I feel torn.”
“Of course you do.”
“Part of me would betray you.”
“And part of you sympathizes with our struggle.”
“Without doubt.”
“An honest man,”
“An honest man will have no other,” I replied, quoting Thomas Jefferson.
“Best I should be on good behavior then,” she smiled.
Perhaps my reticence was in understanding the relationship between the people of the Low City and the Corporation. To be sure it was complex, and hardly a simple conflict between good and evil. It was as intimate as old world marriages, as conflict, hate and vengeance bonds adversaries for eternity. Perhaps it was something more. Perhaps it was that Bethune, by employing children and bargaining with the lives of all the rest, had come to reflect her enemy much more than she realized. Had had each side descended to the inhumanity or proposed inhumanity of their adversary? It was an easy line to cross in war, for all its myriad moral and ethical negotiations and entanglements.
I needed to rest a moment. It was all too much, both the journey and sorting all of this out. I felt as weak as I had in the sewers earlier. Bethune gently stroked my cheek. She had softened considerably, her caring reminding me of the woman in the Channels who had saved me with that same loving touch as a child. This time I believe it was genuine on her part.
“You don’t look well.”
“I’ve had better days.”
A bit of fresh air will do nicely.” There was a hidden intention behind her words. Perhaps there was genuine respect and caring, but how much it was from unselfish humanity was impossible to say. What was true, above all else, was that I was a propaganda tool for Bethune and her movement. It was important never to forget that simple fact.
From the catacombs we entered the sewers again. A phalanx of bodyguards led the way, while more followed as a rear guard. They were vigilant and ready for a fight at every turn. Throughout the sewers Sentinel had been smashed or disabled almost as quickly as Section Twenty-one put them up. Unprepared or unwilling to fight a brutal and protracted war against the Low City, Section Twenty-one quickly abandoned the effort. At one junction, there among the brownish-gray filth, we came upon evidence of how hastily Section Twenty-one had quit the fight. Still partially clad in their black uniforms, and picked over my dogs and other vermin were the remains of two troopers.
The sewers at last opened to a narrow stretch of beach. It came sudden and unexpected around the last bend. The salty sea air came over me as a merciful release of pressure might save a smothering man. I gulped in that first breath, and felt its power rush into every cell of my body, returning me to full life. Bethune’s fighters seemed unmoved by it, and Bethune herself almost seemed repelled at first. They had grown accustomed to the sewers, the dark labyrinth and stealing from place to place to keep clear of Sentinel and Section Twenty-one. Both sides doubtless had long ago forgotten what the real reason for the conflict was. All wars are the same. The real reasons fade and are buried from the first blood, the first drop of blood and an endless parade of crimes and perceived crimes by all sides.
Filth ran in a ruddy-brown rivulet from the lip of the sewer opening. It trickled across the narrow sand where it mixed with the sea. The lazily swelling surf drew it along the shore line in an oily sheen. The sun had swung back to where I had last seen it at the settlement among John Brown’s family. A solar day had passed for the world. A lifetime had passed for me, it seemed.
A dozen or so of Bethune’s security force dropped to the sand and took up defensive positions along the sea wall. It was much easier to discern the successive levels of the city here than in the tunnels and sewers. They were built upon one another like stratified layers of rock. They bulged outward under their combined mass and the weight of the new city rising through low clouds. We were very near the Reclamation center. The low rumble of its massive furnaces shook the earth. Wind off the sea scattered the smoke plume from towering stacks into a thick orange brown haze.
It was hardly more than fifteen or eighteen centimeters to the beach. I climbed down first and held a hand to Bethune. She took it gratefully. With a grimace and self-effacing groan Bethune struggled from the opening down to the beach.
“Thank you, my dear,” she held tight to my arm. She smiled philosophically. “The Corporation has done away with the aged. I’ll tell you, it is quite a privilege. I cherish every day for its new perspectives and greater knowledge, but it comes at the terrible price of a vibrant and increasingly unusable body.”
“It almost makes the Corporation’s case,” I offered, referring of course to Reclamation.
We went slowly along the seawall. Periodically my gaze would drift to the ruins out at sea. By this light the fires seemed brighter and more certain than ever. They flickered wildly, no doubt the excited motions of people moving back and forth. I thought to ask Bethune about them, about whether she had been there or knew anything of the people there. The question, at least for now, seemed entirely out of place.
“If you happen to believe the Corporation should hold the power of life and death,” she said. “Shouldn’t that freedom be sacrosanct to the individual?”
“When are the individual’s rights outweighed by the needs of the community?”
“Or the Corporation?”
I nodded. “Or the Corporation.”
“The rights of the individual are at the core of our struggle in the Low City.”
“And so you would sacrifice thousands for that noble cause?” I baited.
“If absolutely necessary,” she replied quickly.
“For the needs of the society the rights of those individuals are bartered.”
Bethune stopped and stared at me for some time. There was a storm of thoughts and emotions in her eyes. They were at once explosive and surprised. All at once her expression changed and she smiled broadly.
“I believe you almost are ready to face the Corporation. But first there is one last thing you must see.”
We turned and started back for the sewers. The bodyguards retreated as well, forming something of a protective human envelope around us. I paused a moment for one last glance to the ruins. I lingered just a little too long. One of the guards ushered me up into the sewer and back among the world of shadows.
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