The Trial of Tompa Lee

by Edward Hoornaert

  24 The Terrifying Star of Justice

  “The stomach growls happiestly,” Awmit said to Tar-Thara as they trudged the steep road ahead of Tompa, “after digesting revenge.”

  At this mention of food, Tompa tried to moisten her lips and lick away the lingering dust of the landslide, but her mouth was as dry as the landscape. Even though the parched dullness hung over her soul, she enjoyed hearing her friend talk.

  Awmit continued, “This world-aged aphorism soothes negatively Tar-Thara’s grief?”

  The girl didn’t answer. She didn’t seem to Tompa to be overcome with grief. Subdued by the horror of the landslide seemed a better explanation for her quietness—but then, what did she know of Shon emotions?

  Awmit’s efforts to cheer Tar-Thara left much to be desired. Mostly, he uttered old sayings that had little to do with the grief of losing a sister. He’d been trying to console Tar-Thara ever since the four of them turned a corner that had, after a somber hour of hiking, hidden the landslide from sight. As long as the slide was visible, no one had said much. At first, they were shaken and numbed. Then, they were too busy peering through the dust, trying to assess the size of the slide (smaller than it had seemed, especially compared to the original landslide), or searching for signs of survivors (surprisingly, there were quite a few). Dante, bringing up the rear of their small group, had the distracted air of someone talking on a mumbler. Or rather, from his frown and occasional shakes of the head, someone being reprimanded via mumbler.

  Awmit continued talking to Tar-Thara. “The graceful human”—Tompa glanced at him when he mentioned her name, but he looked resolutely at the girl rather than returning the glance—“displaced mountains in seeking craftily revenge. The airka-mot of the sister swims majestically through the swirls and rapids of such a martyrdom.”

  Tar-Thara gave a rippling sigh that Tompa recognized as laughter. The girl stopped laughing when Awmit put his arm around her as though worried by this unexpected reaction. She swivelled her head backwards to include Tompa in the conversation. Both of the Shons looked ghostlike, their skin and clothes muted to grey by dust.

  “Laughter is impoliteness,” Tar-Thara said, “but the reason exists that to earholes of a modern Wod, the Ahms’ way of talking sounds antiquated and stilted, to the proximity of verbal mush. Graceful human must hear with difficulty also, and this one apologizes apologetically for the old Ahm.”

  Now Awmit swivelled his head to stare at Tompa. He hadn’t said a word to her since the landslide, and she had the distinct feeling he was snubbing her. Both of the Shons kept walking, heads facing backward. They weren’t in danger—the mountainside here was fairly level, with no steep dropoff—but Tompa shuddered at the thought of walking forward while looking backward.

  “Well,” she admitted, trying not to take sides, “you both sound kind of funny to me.” The young Shon just looked at her. She’d forgotten Tar-Thara didn’t have a translator in her ear.

  Awmit, however, translated for her. When he was finished, Tar-Thara’s big, round eyes went a little wider.

  “I mean,” Tompa explained, “my translator makes all of your speech come out strange.” Again, Awmit translated.

  “But the primeval Ahms’ outdated allusions, pronunciations, and figures of speech.” Tar-Thara waved a hand as though trying to conjure words for something so obvious that she had difficulty verbalizing it. She gave up, though her hand remained suspended in midair.

  Awmit nodded as though her confusion was to be expected. “Wayfaring fleeishly with humans feels vertiginously like the ground disappearing suddenly beneath the toenails of one’s bedrock assumptions.”

  “This one’s barb exampled precisely!” Tar-Thara pointed at him with all the fingers of both hands, as though his phrasing proved her point. She looked at Tompa, jabbing her hands at him repeatedly.

  Tompa ran a hand over her eyes. Trying to find differences between the speech of the two Shons was more effort than she was capable of right now. “I’m sorry. I can’t hear the difference.”

  “Graceful human,” Awmit translated, “comprehends negatively how the youthful one finds impossibly this one’s speaking outlandish.”

  Tar-Thara pointed at him three times more, each time slower than the last. Then her eyes puckered into what appeared to be a thoughtful expression. Lowering her hands, she faced around to watch where she walked. Just in time, too, because the road became almost step-like as it ascended toward a cleft in a brooding, black wall of rock. She said nothing more, but she swivelled her head around occasionally as though pondering the ungraspable alienness of the woman she’d pledged to defend.

  Tompa glanced back at Dante. He was still engrossed in his mumbler conversation, though he looked happier now. This was as good a time as any, then; she didn’t want him eavesdropping. She took the steps two at a time and closed on the Shons. After a deep breath, she stepped between them. Tar-Thara looked at her curiously but Awmit stared straight ahead. Tompa summoned enough moisture in her mouth to talk. Her heart was pounding more than warranted by the exercise and altitude.

  “Awmit,” she said quietly, “you’ve been avoiding me all day. Why?”

  He didn’t look at her. “This one helped strenuously. Graceful human owns negatively rationale for complaint against this one.”

  “I’m not complaining.” Well, maybe she was. “I thought we were friends, but you’re acting as though we aren’t.”

  “This one conceived similarly friendship.”

  “Then what happened?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “Is it because you don’t need me as a friend now that you have a herd of your own people?”

  He glanced at the young Shon. “This one belongs to no herd here.”

  Tar-Thara made a little chirping sound. “The old one is a mere Ahm!”

  Something in the girl’s voice made Tompa’s jaw clench. This was the way gordos spoke when they referred to her as street meat, but she wasn’t going to get sidetracked. “Why have you avoided talking to me, Awmit?”

  “Graceful human knows.”

  “Graceful human doesn’t know shit about this.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “This one comprehends negatively relationship between excrement and human ability to fake prook-nah.”

  Tar-Thara chirped again, and Tompa decided the sound was the equivalent of a gasp. “Humans counterfeit horrifically prook-nah?”

  Tompa wished her mouth wasn’t so dry, wished the sun didn’t feel as though it was baking her brains. “Is that what this is about? My distrusting Roussel because I don’t believe he’s really on my side?”

  “Friendship is about,” Awmit replied. “If humans fake convincingly prook-nah, this one realizes belatedly that humans also possess treacherously an ability to fake friendship.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Here she needed friendship for the first time in years and what happened? This silly old pear didn’t trust that she was capable of it.

  Awmit said nothing. Just looked at her.

  His expression sent a shiver down her spine. She turned from his gaze, staring at the stone walls that towered over her head. The walls weren’t flat or even monolithic. Instead, they were made of regular, flat-sided pillars fatter than her legs. To make the road, pillars had been sawed or broken off, leaving a hexagonal pavement that looked too even to be natural. For a moment, she was distracted enough to wonder what had caused these strange formations.

  But not for long. She sighed and wiped the sweat from her brow. In truth, Awmit’s doubts were justified. She’d spent years running from closeness and friendship. When the hounds of death finally forced her to cling to someone, whom did she choose? An alien. A being she could never really understand, never really be close to. Meanwhile, her rage kept Roussel, who was at least born in the same sector of the galaxy, at a distance.

  Roussel? What the maggoty ratshit was she thinking? She could never be friends with that flap-happy gordo roach.

  “It’s true,” she said at las
t, “that I don’t know a lot about friendship. I guess . . .” She frowned. “I guess that’s a weakness, though it’s a strength, too. But I’m not faking my friendship for you, Awmit. I don’t know how to make you believe that, but it’s true.”

  He continued walking, all the while staring at her. Though the six-sided steps wound around a sharp corner, he didn’t trip or make a misstep.

  Tompa put her arm out to stop him. He looked down at where her fingertips touched his sloping shoulder.

  She put her other arm around him, then hugged him. “Back in the polyp of preparation,” she said close to his earhole, “you told me this was a good way to herd bond.” He stood stiffly for a moment, then relaxed in the embrace. After a few seconds he made a soft, contented sound.

  Tar-Thara had stopped, too, and with a squeal flung herself on Tompa’s back, knocking her and Awmit against the black columns of rocks. Tompa was scared until the girl started squeezing her stomach affectionately. She shifted so the three of them formed a hugging, herd-bonding triangle.

  When Roussel’s footsteps approached the corner, Tompa tried to pull away. The two Shons wouldn’t let go. They resumed walking with their bodies pressed against hers. Awmit kept his arms around her waist while Tar-Thara, shorter, draped hers around Tompa’s butt and abdomen. It was the most smothering, awkward way to walk Tompa could imagine, but somehow they managed a brisk pace.

  “Hey, can I join in?” Roussel asked with a hint of both laughter and a leer.

  Tompa glanced back. He winked at her.

  She faced the front. The Shons might not need to watch where they walked, but she did. Her chest rose and fell in a sigh. “Go to hell.”

  Roussel chuckled.

  Awmit took one arm off Tompa and reached back in invitation. “Hug bondingly, Dante human.”

  “No, that’s okay. I was kidding.”

  Tar-Thara swivelled her head toward him. “Hug, Dante human.”

  “Well . . .”

  Soon the four of them were walking together like a monstrous, disjointed spider. Roussel was too big, though; his strides threw off the rhythm needed to keep the spider moving. The group hug dissolved, which was fine with Tompa. It was too hot, too embarrassing. But it did seem to have restored her friendship with Awmit.

  “I got a report from the Vance on the activity back at the landslide, if you’re interested,” Roussel said.

  Awmit cocked his head to one side. “This one comprehends negatively.”

  Roussel started to explain about the cruiser that orbited Zee-Shode, monitoring television broadcasts, studying the island with powerful telescopes as it passed overhead, and then relaying the information to him via mumbler. It was a mistake. Awmit comprehended negatively what a cruiser was, and when Roussel explained in simple terms, he comprehended negatively how an unbirdlike city of humans could fly.

  Tompa chuckled as Roussel fumbled about, each explanation raising more questions. “He’s a roofer from an old-fashioned town on a backwater planet,” she interrupted, “not a scientist.”

  Roussel surprised her by laughing. “Yeah, you’re right.” He turned back to the Shon. “I have magical powers, okay? That’s how I know what’s happening back at the landslide.”

  Awmit angled his head far to one side, then translated Dante’s words to Tar-Thara in a rush of excitement. Clearly, this new explanation was quite satisfactory.

  “People on the ship estimate,” Roussel continued, “that eighty Shons were killed or seriously wounded in the landslide.”

  A quiver started in Tompa’s stomach. She closed her eyes, feeling again the hot steel of the beam against her hands, and picturing the earth-shattering rumble of destruction. Her mind replayed the suicidal plunge of the lone Shon. She wrapped her hands around her middle, trying to fight off the urge to be sick.

  “Then there were the fifty or so that Tompa trounced back at the cave exit. That accounts for a hundred thirty of the three hundred accusers.”

  A hundred thirty? She’d killed or injured so many? A bitter, foul taste rose at the back of Tompa’s throat. She wouldn’t give in to her body’s urge to vomit, she wouldn’t—even though she was now a bloodier killer than she been accused of being at the beginning of the trial.

  “Before today,” Roussel continued, “another twenty or so Shons either gave up and went back to the cave, were casualties, or became converts, like Tar-Thara. That accounts for about half the accusers. Nearly fifty more are with Major Krizink, Peffer, and the pod-loogs, still lagging behind but probably the most dangerous of all. That leaves around a hundred survivors of the landslide. A few are staying to help the injured, but it seems that a mobile hospital crew popped out of a cave somewhere and is doing most of the rescue work.”

  “Servants of Bez-Tattin,” Awmit said in a respectful voice.

  “Most of the survivors, I’m afraid, are still after us, although they’ve been slowed by having to climb down to and then out of the gorge.”

  “One hundred plus fifty,” Awmit said. “Only half still pursue vengefully. This means graceful human’s saintliness destroyed mightily half the pursuers!”

  Only half, Tompa thought. All that blood, all that killing, yet she was only half done with the horrible deeds that needed doing. She stared down at her trudging feet. So exhausted—and not just her body. Her soul.

  They rounded a bend and abruptly emerged from the maze of strange, black columns. Ahead, gleaming at the top of the world, stood a building. Tompa couldn’t make out details, but a flat rectangle was unmistakable against the irregular curves of nature.

  “The Temple,” Awmit cried, pointing with all his fingers. Tar-Thara joined him in pointing. “The Temple of Bez-Tattin!”

  They all stopped, staring at the goal of three days’ journey. The Shons rushed forward, chattering excitedly between themselves. Roussel stayed behind with Tompa, who didn’t speed up. “What’s so special about this temple that you wanted to come here?”

  She looked from the temple to the ground, where grey-green weeds grew in the cracks between the black, hexagonal stones paving the road. “It’s as good as anywhere, I suppose.”

  “Is there water here?”

  She scowled at the mention of water. Her tongue felt dry and sticky as she answered. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sure you know that it’s a dead end.”

  No, she didn’t know that. But since he didn’t pause for her to reply, she didn’t bother summoning the energy to speak.

  “The temple,” he continued, “is at the end of a narrow peninsula with cliffs on three sides—the caldera, and two gashes in the walls of the caldera.” He motioned with his hands to emphasize both the steepness of the cliffs and how the pie-shaped peninsula narrowed, with the temple at the apex. “The gorge back there was one of the gashes, and there’s another one about half a mile east. When we crossed that bridge and headed up, we put ourselves on the peninsula with nowhere to go but the temple.”

  Tompa shrugged. This was all very interesting and she wished she’d known it sooner, but it was too late to do anything about it. Too late.

  “Is the temple easily defended?” he asked.

  She tried ignoring him, but this time he was watching and waiting for her to answer. “I don’t know,” she snapped.

  He was silent for a moment. “Don’t you know anything?”

  “Leave me the hell alone!”

  His brow furrowed.

  Surprise, surprise, you flap-hap. Surviving from one moment to the next is the only thing I’m good at. Living? I know nothing about that.

  “Well,” he asked, “do you automatically get acquitted if you reach the temple? Is that why you headed up here?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t think so.” He was staring at her as if she was either lying or withholding information, so she added, “I’m acquitted if I survive three days, though.”

  He leaned closer. “You mean if you make it through tonight, you’re free?”

  “I think so. Actually, I
just have to make it until sunset, because it’s against the rules to attack during the night.”

  “I didn’t know that. So if the Shons who survived the landslide don’t make it here by dark, we win. That’s wonderful!” He laughed, but the sound slowly faded. “You don’t seem as happy as I’d expect.”

  She closed her eyes and saw splattered blood and slimy chunks of brain. Shuddering, she opened her eyes. “I’m overjoyed. Delirious.”

  He reached toward her, dropping his hand when she cringed. “I can’t figure you out at all.”

  She just shrugged. With feet made of lead, she followed Awmit and Tar-Thara up the switchbacks leading to the temple. The ground on either side of the road was covered by clumps of low plants, and Tar-Thara suddenly darted off the road to prance through the growth, twirling and moving her arms in supple, dance-like motions. The girl was so young and innocent.

  “Do you know,” Tompa asked Roussel, “how I got the money to buy the lottery tickets that got me into this mess?”

  “No.” He glanced at her chest, and after a telltale moment, he added, “And it’s none of my business.”

  She let out a long breath. “You damned gordos are all alike. But for your information, I didn’t flick any pricks.”

  “Oh. I’m glad, Tompa.”

  “You are such a flap-hap, Roussel! What the hell does that mean, you’re glad?” Tompa jerked her arm in Tar-Thara’s direction; the girl had picked some short branches and was twining them around her wrists like bracelets. “You think I was some sort of damned innocent like her?”

  “Until this morning, that ‘innocent’ was part of the mob trying to kill you.”

  “Asshole. Compared to me, she’s innocent.” She knew from his expression he was going to interrupt, so she hurried on. “I’ll tell you how I got the money. I stole it. Yeah, from little old ladies sleeping on the street.”

  God, why did she say that? It only happened once and the woman was already dead, frozen stiff during a winter night. Most of the people she robbed were crooks who’d stolen the money from someone else. They deserved to be robbed—or at least that’s what she thought at the time—and so it didn’t count as stealing.

  “I stole it,” she repeated.

  “I see.” Roussel, damn him, didn’t seem surprised. After a moment, he added, “You keep calling me a flap-hap. What does it mean?”

  Tompa looked straight ahead. Tar-Thara was throwing leaves at Awmit, who walked stolidly beside her. “A flap-hap,” she said harshly, “is someone whose brain is shit. Borderline crazy. Not mentally intact. Defective.”

  “Oh.” He kept walking. “Okay.”

  They walked in silence. After a dozen steps, Tompa sneaked a glance at him. At first she couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but then she noticed the muscles at the hinge of his jaw flexing as he clenched his teeth. Wearily, she ran a hand over her face. Hurting his feelings was trivial compared to the rest of what she’d done, but it was still another proof that she wasn’t one of the good guys. Her feet seemed to grow heavier with each step. She fell behind Roussel and soon was alone. Alone . . .

  Over the next ten minutes, Tompa approached the Temple of Bez-Tattin. The closer she got, the less impressive it appeared, just a windowless rectangle of weathered, grey ashlars nestled between two nondescript humps of mountain. Although it was in surprisingly good repair, it wasn’t impressive.

  Until, that is, she rounded the hump that framed the temple wall. A soaring rainbow of rocks—pink, black, grey, green, and white—arched over the entrance to a walled courtyard. Inside was a huge, smooth space dotted with several buildings, each with an intricately carved stone façade. No wonder the place hadn’t looked impressive as she approached. All she’d seen was the wall of the courtyard, not the temple itself.

  Tompa’s pace grew even slower. For some reason, she feared this place down to the marrow of her bones. But as Roussel had said, there was nowhere else to go. On her right was a gorge. Ahead was the emptiness of the bowl at the heart of the volcano, the far rim separated from her by a bottomless pit leading straight to hell.

  Awmit waited for her near the gate; Roussel and Tar-Thara had already gone inside. “Stand reverently here, graceful human.” He gestured her toward him.

  She went to his side, looking at him rather than at the temple.

  “Look overwhelmedly, graceful human,” he said softly. “Look.”

  She took a deep breath and turned toward the rainbow arch. Framed by the arch was a low building that spanned the entire far end of the courtyard. Evenly spaced pillars, a few of them broken or fallen, guarded the building like a line of riot police. By human standards the building was neither imposing nor beautiful, yet it nonetheless possessed an austere grandeur that made Tompa’s breath catch. Atop the center of the building, dominating everything, stood a pitted stone statue of a slender Shon, one arm raised and holding a sword whose metal gleamed in the harsh sunlight. Camera balloons flocked around the statue as though worshiping it.

  She started to raise her arm to point to the statue, but the arm was trembling, so she lowered it quickly to her side. “Bez-Tattin?”

  “Agree affirmatively.” Awmit made a soft, contented sigh. “Ancient place, graceful human, perhaps most ancient and famous in the world. Its appearance on this one’s eyes makes satisfyingly death acceptable. Five hundred thousand years Bez-Tattin’s statue stands guardingly here. That one civilized the Shons by teaching famously the taming of destructive facets of prook-nah.”

  Tompa shivered as though sensing the ghosts of half a million years. And Zee-Shode years were slightly longer than on earth.

  “Step reverentially inside,” Awmit urged.

  “No!”

  He stopped, surprised.

  “There’s writing on the arch,” she stalled. “What does it say?”

  Awmit didn’t even look; clearly he knew this place by heart. “‘Justice for life-acts awaits deservingly inside.’”

  Justice? Oh, shit. Shit.

  Tar-Thara and Roussel came into view, peering around as they examined the walled courtyard; a trail of footprints traced their path across the otherwise immaculate dust. “You go in, Awmit,” Tompa said. “I’ll come along in a minute. Go.”

  While she waited for Awmit to leave, she stared at the distant statue of the Shon god. She’d never believed in religion. Even back when Sister Lakeisha was trying to save her soul, Tompa had sensed that religion had less to do with spirituality than with choosing a social group, and thus she consigned it to the garbage heap of useless knowledge. But staring at the ancient, alien deity who promised she’d get what she really deserved, Tompa shuddered. A god of retribution . . . yeah, that she could believe.

  She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to fend off a sudden chill despite the equatorial sun. For as long as she could remember, she’d felt that if life were fair, she should be able to exact retribution on those who wronged her. Never, or rarely, did she think justice would go against her. She was one of the good guys, victim rather than villain.

  Tell that to the dead lady whose money she’d stolen. Or Tar-Thara’s sister. The hundred-and-fifty dead pursuers. Even poor, dumb Jim Zhang.

  We’re all sinners, Sister Lakeisha had said. And finally, belatedly, Tompa understood. I’m a killer, she thought. A thief. A manipulator. A sinner. Someone who scarcely knows the meaning of friendship. Before this trial she’d worn a winter jacket of illusions that insulated her from the truth about herself, with layers of fantasy sweaters underneath for good measure. Anything that promised to keep truth’s icicle-fingers from searing her precious rationalizations.

  Now, stripped naked of self-delusions on the doorstep of a god who promised justice and held a sword of retribution, Tompa shivered and let out a sob. Then another, and another. Terror, gut-grabbing, mind-blinding terror, gripped her belly and stung her eyes. Dear god, she didn’t want justice. She wanted . . .

  What?

  To run. Hide. Slip off to a cave to cry. G
o someplace where no one would ever notice her. But beyond that, she wanted, wanted . . .

  Mercy. Forgiveness. Pity, even. Anything but justice.

  “Please,” she whispered, “forgive me.” A sob escaped her. “Please.” The reflection off Bez-Tattin’s sword blurred to a sharp-lanced star as tears filled her eyes. How could she make herself walk toward that horrible star, that vengeful sword? She couldn’t. But she had to, or else . . .

  Or else be alone. Utterly alone. Just like she’d always wanted.

  A tear dropped from her cheek onto her uniform. It wasn’t her uniform, of course. It, too, was a lie, a good and noble thing she didn’t deserve. Tompa closed her eyes against the unbearable brilliance of Bez-Tattin’s star.

  After a moment, though, she took a deep breath. “You can do this, girl.” Her voice was nasal, as though all her body’s remaining moisture now huddled in her nose, trying to suffocate her. She dried her tears on a sleeve. “African princess.” She sniffed as she raised her chin. “Remember that.”

  With her gaze focused on the sword but also aware of the cameras and the people in the courtyard—her friend Awmit, the youthful Tar-Thara, and her archenemy Roussel—Tompa walked steadily toward the terrifying star of justice.