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 Nineteen

“Show us a single benefit to your existence,” says the Man from Efficiency.

Even the man from the Corporation realizes the impossible nature of that question, even though it is at the heart of all this. Sweat beads across my bow. I brush it away with my fingers, watching where the drops fall.

“Be fair!” the Corporation Man scolds. His hand pounds the desk loudly causing the judges to cringe and exchange nervous glances. He appears frustrated. “I have not sought to intervene, but the question is unfair, and, I dare say, unanswerable.”

The Woman from Reproduction presses the issue. “In the view of the court the question is fundamen…”

It’s a fool’s question!” he snaps in quick reply.

“Not sure I follow,” says the Man from Efficiency.

“I could ask each of you the same question,” The man from the Corporation’s tone is belittling.

“Are you an observer or a participant?” Asks the Man from Police. His words are poorly chosen and harshly delivered. I can see that he already regrets uttering them, though it is far too late to call them back. His eyes narrow as he cowers from the blistering response from the Corporation Man.

“Perhaps we might do with one less judge!”

“No, no,” I reply, with a casual wave of the hand. I nod to him respectfully. It is genuine, even if it becomes another opportunity for dividing the judges further. “I will answer the question, if the Court will permit?”

“I can hardly wait,” scoffs the man from Efficiency, drawing a stern glance from the Corporation Man.

“The court will not interfere,” he says.

I would reach out to the Man from the Corporation. I want to exploit the friction among the judges as much as possible, but not if it means condescending, groveling, or appearing to curry favor.

“If I may,” I scoot onto the table. It is thoroughly theatrical. The Man from the Corporation seems to be the only one to recognize the gesture. “The question is definitely an impossible one. It is, for one, impossible in that no man can adequately proclaim his right to exist to another. Do I have a right to exist in this society? The question is fully one of perspective, and perspectives are, by their very nature, biased and limited. It is those biases and limits that become the essence of my defense.”

“Go on,” says the Man from the Corporation, covering a smile with his hand.

I am not speaking to the judges now. Their views are well known and unchangeable. The character of their arguments is combative. They are skewed and devoid of compassion, or any pretense that they desire for any understanding beyond their own.

“There is but one difference between us,” I say. “This flesh is nothing, except that the history of man is the inability to refuse to look beyond the flesh, and failing that nationality and the soul. Mankind is a history written of a precious few souls struggling against that foolishness, but it is written in the blood of all those sacrificed to nothing that enabled mankind to reach its fullest potential. Instead we separated ourselves, subdividing the world down to smaller and smaller parcels that our wounded and frightened hearts may digest until all that is left is individual, alone and separated from all others. And now, at the end of all that I stand here before this court, before the Corporation, but also at the edge of history yet to be written. The question is, will the history yet to unfold be written in blood as it was in the past? The answer to that question is fundamental,” I glance with disdain at the Woman from Reproduction, “is fundamental to realizing the lessons mankind has learned from history. But the question that pertains to me, to the vast difference between you and I, between all of you and I, and between my ancestors and all who sought by purpose, silence or ignorance to oppress them boils down to this…I must justify my existence.”


I move from the table coming as close to the Judges as I can. The emotion ran away with me. The world roared from my soul, from something eternal and primeval, fully a character, and assertion of every cell in my body rather than some vague notion.

“Men must tolerate men by right of agreement. You must know that my rights are inviolable, and that no man may ‘give’ another man rights, for if you can give those rights then you may take them away. No one gives me rights. They are mine, and if taken away then they are stolen and that is the difference. Hence the words of Malcolm X; Kill that dog! I have done nothing. This right to exist is mine by virtue that I am, and if you remove that from me then you have committed the real crime!”

THE LAST MAN: Part Eighteen

“Kill that dog!” I slam my hand hard to the table. It smarts terribly, and I almost wince. The judges jump in their seats. Even the man from the Corporation jumps. The pain travels white hot up my arm into my shoulder, but that pain is well worth the reaction. The man from the Corporation covers a smile with his hand. He seems impressed. I am as well, at having caught them all by complete surprise. Sentinel must be furious!

“I beg your pardon?” The Man from Police gasps.

“If a man uses a dog to keep you from what is yours, kill that dog!” I assert the words of Malcolm X.

“I don’t understand,” says the Woman from Security.

“Violence!” accuses the Man from Efficiency. “The very reason humanity did away with race and religion. The inherent violence of human difference. And there you are, at the end of your argument. All that is left is violence.”

The Woman from Reproduction concurs.

“Violence is the last domain of the downtrodden,” I assert.

“Certainly was an attention getter,” remarks the Man from the Corporation.

“A subversion,” I say.

“A small victory,” he smiles respectfully, though with some sympathy.

“But a victory.”

“Indeed.”

“But to what end?” asks the Man from Entertainment. It is impossible to refrain from a smart-ass comment.

“I thought you of all people would recognize the value of theater!”

“It’s the concept of violence, which you seem all to ready to employ, that I wish to explore,” the an from Police rubs his forehead and looks over notes.

“I don’t think he was really advocating…” the Man from the Corporation begins. I abruptly cut him off.

“Indeed I was!”

“Sorry?”

“There you have it,” concedes the Woman from Security.

“Power concedes nothing without demand,’ said Frederick Douglas. There is an implicit power behind any demand, or it has no value. The only true power of the powerless is violence.”

“Or the potential for violence.”

“The same,” I say.

“So you admit to that predilection?” says the Man from Police, as though uncovering some hidden motive in my words.

“It must be a possibility when power is unbalanced,” I say. A warmth rushes through me, as though I am being cornered. It is much too late to retreat, and especially before this bunch. “”You must understand, that when your power overcomes reason and mercy, that I may rise against you, and that our very existence becomes part of the negotiation.”

“I’ll caution you about threatening the court,” the Woman from Reproduction scolds.

“I have threatened no one,” I say, “Instead I have merely pointed out that your power resides in the size and force of the state, and that I am at the mercy to your penchant for fairness. My power, all that I have in the face of the Corporation remains, if pressed, defiance.”

“May I ask,” the Woman from Security begins. Her tone is softer, almost sympathetic. She even leans as far forward as possible. “May I ask, to what purpose? Why defy and resist? Why disrupt the precise order of the society?”

Is her question a trick? She must know what I have seen. All of them surely know that I have been to the Low City, that I have seen the nightmarish scenes in the Reclamation Center, that I know the hypocrisy of the Corporation and the refuse it pretends is solid foundation. Do I argue for my existence against all that, or does calling forth their shame and infallibility only make it easier for them to get rid of me?

THE LAST MAN: Part Seventeen

“I remember the exact moment,” she begins again. Her name is Desiree, a name which somehow seems appropriate. We are sitting at the table, both completely drained by our laughter. A steady rain drives churning black smoke from the Reclamation Center down into the city where it lingers like a dirty fog. Heavy gray clods descend along the coast in tattered sheets. Oily black soot bleeding upon the window distorts that world into monotone abstracts. She pauses, weighing those first words, her eyes flitting anxiously to Sentinel.

“I was a Mandate Clerk for Reclamation Services. It is hardly more than a computer lottery, really. Not much to there, but my department’s task was to notify section twenty-one for the occasional non-compliance, coordinate with the Channels for labor replacement, and to reassign living assignments…”

As Desiree continues my thoughts are flooded by the terrible images from the Reclamation Center.

…it was all terribly precise and efficient. I thought nothing as Associates in my work section received their Mandates. They would simply finish out their day and that was it. One day my Mandate would come. I never, never questioned,” she looks at me deeply pained. “Like questioning the motion of the earth around the moon, or the sum of four plus four.” She shrugs, fiddling with her fingers. “Then one morning getting out of bed my legs became tangled in the sheet and I tripped. My head struck the corner of the table, right here.”

She parts the hair covering her forehead. Perhaps two inches above the left eye a poorly healed scab covers a ragged gash.

Sentinel surely alerted Section Twenty-one?” I say.

“Hmm, I laid in a pool of my own blood for two days. Seems sentinel only really worries over subversive or dangerous thoughts. The languishing emptiness of the unconscious Associate is of much less concern.”

“But your position at Reclamation Services?”

She glares at Sentinel a moment, as if tempting it with her obvious disdain. “A secret of the Corporation, birthrates are hardly uniform. From time to time Reclamation creates overages and shortages in the system. Actual reclamation progresses at a constant unchangeable rate. It functions at maximum capacity. That rate never rises and never falls. I believe that the reclamation center is the most efficient link in the system.”

Desiree obviously has no idea. “I have seen it firsthand.”

“The Reclamation Center?” she asks, surprised. “You have been there?”

“Nothing you should concern yourself with,” I say with a knowing glance to Sentinel.

She stands and goes to the window, looking out across the dull and rain-swept city. “When I awoke everything had changed. Everything was so terribly confusing. I tried to control these feelings, but they were just too much. Worst of all, I had the sudden sense of being entirely alone in the world. I broke down at work one day. Within forty-eight hours I received my Mandate. Two days later I was reassigned and brought here.”

I recall the words of Frederick Douglas. In them I find common cause with my new roommate, as well as ample ammunition for court on Monday, “…we were one; and as much so by our tempers and dispositions, as by the mutual hardships to which we were necessarily subjected by our condition as slaves.”

THE LAST MAN: Part Sixteen

At the window of my flat stands a woman, facing the city. She is dressed in an Associate’s tunic and trousers. She is weeping. Her head is bowed, almost disappearing in the canyon of her shoulders. A low moan escapes her. Beyond that there is nothing to distinguish her from any other female Associate. She is the same size, the same color as all the others. Her hair is the same dull blackish-brown hue. Her hips are shapely and perfect for child bearing. It is only her uncontrolled emotions that seem to have doomed her to my doorstep

I have a sense that she was sent by the Corporation. In such a state, surely this sort of breakdown would earn her immediate reclamation. I doubt that any of this is her doing, but certainly she is a purposefully proposed distraction intended to disrupt or destroy my preparations for the resumption of my trial Monday morning. Not that I can rightly hold any of that against her. As cruel as it seems, the best course of action is simply to let her be and let the Corporation do what it will do.

I step into the room, moving along the wall to the bed. Upon a hanger in the small closet across the room a coat, jacket and several Associate uniforms are hung beside mine, as if she has been here forever. Another chair has been added at the table. Her bowl and cup are set neatly opposite mine.

She struggles to collect herself. With that she straightens and turns, not quite facing me. She studies me a moment. Her face is explosive, as if it might dissolve completely into tears, and that the redness of her face belies the incredible effort in holding them back. It is clear my aloof manner makes her uncomfortable. The moment hangs heavy and terrible between us. I believe she wrongly interprets my disinterest as hostility.

“Wasn’t my choice,” she says, breaths tumbling in her chest. I make no reply and remove my tunic. Sitting at the edge of the bed my gaze is empty and distant. “Section Twenty-one…My reclamation Mandate was revoked.”

I smile, but it is one filled with pity and knowing. Suddenly the word, once benign and unquestioned becomes obscene, less for the actual reality than for this poor creature’s sublime ignorance. My eyes meet hers for just an instant, but then I look away.

“AHH!” she screams with rage and claws at her face. Suddenly she is charging across the room. I raise an arm to protect myself, but she rushes past me and beats wildly the Sentinel on the wall. “You can see in my head, then why can’t you fix me? Make me as numb and empty as the rest! Why? Why do you leave me this way?”

Fearing the tantrum will bring Section Twenty-one I drag her back across the room, and push her into the corner by the window. Her mood has very definitely changed, enough that I retreat a few steps just to be safe.

“Are you mad?” I ask, looking back at Sentinel.

“Mad? I am definitely mad!” she froths.

I settle to the floor across from her, my back against the wall. My legs are drawn up. I clasp my hands around them. She anxiously pulls her fingers through her long dark hair, then rubs her auburn eyes. The storm of our introduction settles. And as with all storms is replaced with a deep and resonating quiet.

I expect she will ask me the obvious question. Since leaving the Channels I have existed largely alone, without any task or position, certainly without sex, and with little substantial human contact. Indeed, my time in the Low City proves the richest relations I have had with any other human being.

I have no clue how I will answer, or even if I should. Not that there is any harm in it, and I certainly have nothing to hide from her. Rather, any explanation comes with the history of my life, of a history far beyond my life, and I simply do not have the energy or inclination. But she surprises me in not asking.

The ultimate struggle of the Corporation wrestles in her eyes. It is the fundamental question of logic versus emotion. The essence of that at question lies at the core of all societies, and, in no small way, upon the stark battlefield of the individual human heart. One is a herd of wild beasts, while logic is a whore, abandoned of all of all empathy and morality (except that which it benefits from), and is completely for sale. She was mulling over words and calculating. Surely she is as distrustful of me as I am of her. But there is loneliness there as well, not something familiar to normal Associates. As the orphan of emotions loneliness is perhaps the strongest force shaping that embattled heart.

“Do you have any idea?” she cocks her head to one side. It is not a question a normal Associate would have the first clue in answering, or asking either.

I smile knowingly and scratch my calf through the trousers. “More than you realize.”

She nods thoughtfully and purses her soft pink lips. She seems in no particular hurry to reply. “Perhaps that is why they put us together.”

“I doubt it.”

The moment of quiet flees her as quickly as it came. She seems a slave to her emotions, struggling with something unknown to her before and now sudden and powerful. Unlike the mechanical logic promoted and projected by the Corporation, her raw and tentative emotions betray a much wider Universe and her much diminished place in that Universe. I recognize it readily, for I still struggle with mine.

“These emotions are tearing me to pieces,” she begins. “One minute I sink into despair so deep and dark I fear being completely consumed. The next I am so burdened with joy at existing even for a moment, for this breath inside of me and for the privilege of beholding the stars above that I am sure to erupt and fill space with my light. But it is all too much and I long for the emptiness of the life before…” She searches my tentative gaze. “Are you like all the others? Do you really have any idea what I am saying?”

I remain silent. I feel that I should touch her, but cannot muster the courage. Still, this is the truest bond between people, I am discovering. It is not society or politics, and certainly not the random lottery of flesh and race. No, the truest bond is in the shared suffering in facing an unknown Universe. It is this fleeting uncertainty which we call life. It is that one fewer question in an infinite number of questions that is at last answered.

“I know.”

The words stop her cold. They arrest her stampeding emotions in place. Her brow furls. For the first time I recognize her smooth round face as gentle and attractive. She begins to laugh. It grows and becomes louder, taking her over fully until she is howling and holding her side. It infects me until that tiny flat reverberates with our unrestrained release. Sentinel must think us utterly mad.

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.