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