THE LAST MAN: Part Twenty-four

It is a frigid evening, requiring a jacket and gloves. My warm breaths rise ghostly-white before the wind along the narrow boulevard tears them to pieces. I pause on the street and linger at the glow of the atrium atop the building high above the street. The street is dark and deserted, but for the dull bluish glow of a Sentinel on the corner. The Reclamation Center churns onward, spewing hideous clouds of black smoke. A brisk southern wind whips the smoke earthward in dark tendrils, like death’s insatiable fingers ravenous for more souls.

There is a vehicle at the corner. It is dark, but I can make out 2 figures inside. It is an unnatural thing, and I am certain they have come for me. Whether they will arrest me, or simply observe to be sure I reach court in the morning is impossible to say. What is certain is that they are there to ensure the court’s sentence is carried out.

My thoughts threaten to run away on their own, as the fever of encroaching and unstoppable fate takes hold. I look again to the Sentinel on the corner. Fearing my own thoughts will betray me I remove my gloves and stuff them in a pocket. The icy cold wind biting at my fingers succeeds in diverting my thoughts.

I turn away from the dark vehicle and start up the empty street. The doors to the vehicle open and close quickly. There are footsteps behind me, not close, but near enough. At the corner I pause, my heart seized with fear, the blood in my veins colder than that howling wind. A Sentinal is above me. Raising my hands I let the cold stab deep into the flesh. Half a block away another car pulls to a stop. Four Section Twenty-one troopers step into the street. One of them is the commander who oversaw my beating days before. His words return to me, and I am sure he relishes this opportunity to indulge his sadism. The moment is decided for me. I have only too choices. One is submission. I choose the other.

Without thought I am running across the street, chased by the commander and his men. They are trained and bred for this, and I am nothing against anyone of them, let alone half a dozen. There is but one chance, and that is to reach the archive building. I can hear them close behind, but to look back now would prove fatal. A slip, a misstep or a stumble and I am lost. Rounding a corner the archive building is just ahead. I can see the inky blackness of the entrance. A downhill slope gives me a moment’s advantage with my longer stride.

They know. They know by now I have no intention of surrendering. I have no intention of going quietly to Reclamation. They know that by now and will kill me here on the street. That much I know.

They are slower through the narrow passages beneath the archive building. They are unsure in the darkness, and nearly trip and fall over one another, but they are closer now than before. Rounding a corner one of them grabs my collar, but trips and falls, taking down several around him.

Throwing myself hard against the door, I spill forward into the rancid water and muck, barely managing to keep my feet. The humidity and rot of the archives hits me like a wall. I am still fighting to get my footing when the troopers burst through the door behind me. They have me, I feel sure, my mind and body swimming in amber, but the racket sets the archives alive. Clouds and swarms of flying, slithering and creeping things slow my pursuers, long enough for me to reach the top of the first pile.

The storm swirls around me as well, blinding me, causing me to stumble and fall just as a hail of bullets cuts the air overhead. A ricochet cuts my neck, and warm blood spills down my body. It knocks me sideways where I flail and tumble into the hole at the back of the archive. For a moment I feel suspended in air before landing with a bone-jarring thud.

It the darkness I have only a vague impression what direction I am going. That darkness is all but absolute, and made all the more disorienting as my arms and legs grudgingly accept my shouts to reach the dull pale light ahead, which I pray is the beach and the rescuing numbers of the Low City. Troopers are dropping through the hole behind me one at a time. I crawl and reach feebly for the light ahead, unable to find my feet.

In an instant the first trooper is upon me and I am thrown hard against the wall. Undeterred, for the moment, I lunge for the light before the sharp end of a heavy boot finds my chest, ripping the air from my lungs and folding me in a heap against the wall. Before I can even moan gloved hands grab my throat. Their murderous pressure is calculated by my unseen assassin. When at last he hisses through gritted teeth the voice of the Commander is unmistakable.

“Think we wouldn’t meet again?” he spits. “You’ve become the purpose of my existence. Now I’ll correct a genetic mistake and rub you out of the Universe.” He shouted up the others. “Quick, a light down here so I can enjoy the fear in his eyes as I squeeze the life from him!”

Several lanterns come on, but the vision is hardly what any of us expected. There, at both ends of the passage is a wall of faces, like beautiful demons lusting for some long deserved justice. The Commander’s hold on my neck softens, but did not release me, as if he holds me hostage, or might chose out of spite that I precede him into death. Still, I might have rejoiced at being rescued, but the faces of the troopers, their expressions at the end of all hope, is sobering. They are the faces of men who understand that death is at hand, and that resistance only succeeds in prolonging the pain and humiliation of that lamentable end.

The Commander, for all his hate and hubris, is not so quick to concede, even as I can see the rising desperation in his eyes. The fear he relished to find in my eyes now filled his own as his men are consumed and dispatched by those dark demons with little more than pathetic gasps or muffled cries.

With that he releases me and stands straight. Climbing to my feet I find his eyes. What I find there sweeps me into the abject lonesomeness of his position. Yet, his eyes remain burgeoning with defiance and pride. His body is resigned perhaps to fate, though it is plain to see that his spirit will not so easily concede.

“Think that I would beg or be driven mad by this feeble assertion against the Corporation?” he laughs darkly. “I am a soldier, and for my enemy I have nothing but contempt. So I am killed. That’s a soldier’s lot.”

“To what end?” It seems unsympathetic arguing this with a doomed man.

“I fight for an ideal.”

“And what of the Low City?”

“The Corporation represents modernity; a progression. As for your chosen friends, the New Man has always eradicated the regressives.” His eyes search mine. I long to find an inkling, the slightest desire for mercy. “So I am dead, but one day these terrorists will go too far. And you, you have chosen your side as well. That will be your fate.”

I turn away, pressing through the demon faces in the passage. Pausing I look back at the Commander. He stands alone, his head bowed. I turn away as the crowd moves in upon him. I have no interest in seeing the man die.

THE LAST MAN: Part Twenty

I’d be lying if I said there was any real passion in the act. It was animal sex pure and simple. It was an exchange, a bodily pressure, and in a way, an act of rage. It was sex, a release, a few moments in which the intersection of my body with Desiree’s eclipsed the whole world. But to dismiss it as merely a bodily function, as blind as, say, a sneeze, would not be accurate either. It is not about the biological release, but rather the magic of a touch, and in the unencumbered closeness of bodies that leaves no room for dishonesty.

We lay together afterwards, wrapped in each other’s arms and legs. Her breathing is still heavy, like mine. She turns and pulls me close, nuzzling her face into my neck. I exalt at the simple rise and fall of her belly against mine. She is flushed, and the soft scent of her tossed hair steals my thoughts from the trial. In the fading sunset of her pleasure Desiree’s body trembles slightly. When it subsides she lets out a long breath warm against my flesh that cools me. I rise a little and looked into her glistening face. The hair is matted to her damp forehead.

On the whole, I am happy with my new companion. She must feel the same. Certainly our attraction is more than mechanical. We are hopeful islands to one another. I am careful not to assign too much to any of this, however. Those long abandoned concepts of Love are ill-defined abstracts. It is a word without meaning and certainly without relevance any longer. Long about the end of the Twentieth and Twenty-first Centuries Love was dissected, its constituent parts isolated and quantified in terms of bio-chemical equations. No fault of Science, with its natural and laudable quest for knowledge, but rather the fault of misplaced cynicism that twisted that knowledge and stole the magical nature of Love. For truly the magic of love lies in the finite nature of our existence amid the miniscule perspective we bring to the universe.

Overnight love was transformed into a drug, a fleeting and childish titillation, a mystery only of fate and the random lottery of advantageous meetings. And so Science marginalized it, business mocked it as a commodity, and religion propagandized it until Love ceased to hold purpose when at last the Corporation (with the complicent silence of the people) negated it altogether. The strategies by moralists, false prophets and religionists that seized upon ever narrowing definitions instead proved the ultimate catalyst of Love’s demise.

Rolling to one side, she presses her smooth buttocks against my side. I’m glad she cannot see my smile; dumb like a schoolboy. It is a relic of a wiser time, before our dreams were stolen by the Corporation, or before the reality of the world in which such fancies could run free and unfettered. My breaths echo off the ceiling. I could almost sleep at that sweet rhythm. My eyelids grow heavy and I almost feel myself slipping away when she begins to whimper. It is almost too quiet to hear. For a moment I try to ignore her, but it grows as a weight in my heart.

“You’re crying?”

“I’m happy,” she sniffles.

“Happy?” I say. “Hardly sounds happy.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Dare I ask?” I say.

“It’s hopeless.”

“Hopeless?”

“Us. You and me.”

“And that makes you happy?”
“They’ll send us off to Reclamation soon enough. It’s guaranteed. When your trial is finished, or you’ve impregnated me, when they’ve completed their observations and experiments. Oh yes, we’ll be finished all right!”

“Well,” I groan, and pat her naked hip, “you’ve certainly cheered me up!”

“You don’t understand,” she says, retreating to the end of the bed. Desiree curls her legs close to her body. She rocks gently to and fro. “Maybe it’s my affliction, all these unnatural emotions, quite different than the corporation expects from us, but for the first time I don’t have to hide my emotions; these thoughts.” She smiles wistfully. “Death has freed me.”

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.”

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.