by Edge O. Erin
The elderly man, bare-chested and trouserless, remained proud and resolute, posture perfect despite having to sit on a metal chair that had been brought out of a freezer just as the Enquiry began and only sporadically — and seemingly disinterested — looking at his accusers. The added ignominy of a pointy brown hat being perched on his head partway through the affair apparently did not affect him.
In short, he was unperturbed. This had not only provoked some members of the gallery to launch into outbursts of profanity, but it incited the Grace, Abigailius Ghan, to pound her fist on the dais. Oliga Ghan even threw a copy of the Red Articles at him. That action caused a collective gasp as it violated the Red Articles and the Enquiry’s code of conduct. Said copy hurtled through the air and just brushed by his pointy brown hat, causing it to tilt to the side. The Grace’s voice trembled in anger as she encouraged everyone to remain calm, but her demeanour was betrayed by how she stomped over to the guilty man and reset the hat, flattening out the point in haste.
Slowly, people gathered their composure, and he was questioned repeatedly. Being mute, he could only answer in sign language or by scrawling some notes on a whiteboard that popped up on a projector screen to the side of the panel. He offered nothing.
“To summarise, you are unwilling to reveal any of your contacts, any pertinent information you have disclosed, any plans that MEM or other dissident groups may have, etc.?”
His ‘thumbs-up’ elicited another raucous outburst with one attendee, a former colleague, launching a fold-up metal chair that clanged and clattered on by him. A ripe tomato did splatter a kneecap before the old tosser was restrained from firing off another fruity missile.
Interestingly, the only person who didn’t seem angry was Riot, and as she stood and stepped forward, everyone calmed down to see what she was about. “If it pleases the panel, may I ask the subject a few questions?”
It was highly irregular, but given they were getting nowhere and if not for her, they might still be looking for the mole, a short huddle produced a “Yes, go ahead, Minister.”
Mariot walked up to Apner Ghan-ish. They knew each other better than most.
“You know what I am capable of, correct?”
He nodded knowingly.
“And you know there are well-established means of extracting information from the unwilling?”
He nodded again.
“So, why prolong an inevitability that will be most uncomfortable for all concerned?”
He signed, “Correction, not at all uncomfortable for all concerned.”
She smiled at him, “You may be right about that, yet, if we can agree that if invasive and aggressive techniques will give voice to what is in there,” she tapped his forehead, “then why continue this embarrassing spectacle?”
This time he wrote his answer on the board provided to him, one word slowly after another, “To… see… all… of… you… squirm… as… you… bathe… in… your… iniquity… inequity… and… ineptitude.”
People lost all self-control. Two individuals hurtled the fence, and security couldn’t snag the one before he kicked the seated man. One tomato aimed at the subject ended up hitting Mariot in the back. Two elites were raging — fingers wagging — at Apner as he lay on the floor strapped to the chair. Security ushered the spectators back to the gallery and escorted the tribunal members back to their chairs. At the same time, Apner Ghan-ish managed to snag onto the brown hat, prop it again on his head and reset himself in the upright chair.
It took several minutes to restore order.
Abigailius Ghan pounded her gavel unmercifully.
“It’s now time to pass sentence! Untie him from the chair and bring him forward.”
A security guard marched him up the steps to the dais, directly in front of the Grace.
“In all that is omniscient, omnipotent and impermeable in the Goddess and her chosen Grace, this Tribunal, sanctioned by the Ghan Family of Families and the World Government, decree you shall succumb to the oldest and most undignified death. A death one that all us may freely participate. It will be death by stoning!”
She glared at him and since he was seemingly, vexingly, nonplussed, couldn’t resist asking, “How do you feel about that, you maggot?”
He slowly raised his hand, gave her the middle finger, smiled, and mouthed a “Fuck You!”
Abigailius Ghan left the dais, strode over, yelled, “Evil!” and rammed her long dagger-like hairpin in his ear. It was a lethal blow, and he died instantly. Riot slapped her hand to her forehead while second-in-command, Enjang Ghan said, “By the Goddess, what you have you done?”
Wezer Smik, who had been standing at the very back, breathed a, “Wow, what an achievement Good Doctor!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Abigail Ghan, for all her intellect, power, plans, and foresight, did not see this coming.
“Me, go to Prometer? That’s preposterous! We will send another.”
“No, it’s already been agreed upon.” Enjang Ghan motioned to the attendant, and he opened the doors, and Oliga Ghan marched in with Mariot’s parents.
“Kelline and Wade Ghan sought our counsel, and we had to agree that the present Mariot is undeserving of her station, and the Ghan name is diminished by her demeanour and rash behaviour. You have persisted in defending her and lost your objectivity.
“Your loss of control and murder of the mole, in full view, only further evidenced that you no longer possess the temperament to lead here.”
“That’s a bucketload of poppycock-man-nuts!”
Enjang and Oliga exchanged knowing glances.
Oliga continued, “That, dear cousin, is something we would expect Riot to blurt out. Honestly, it is hard to say if she has infected you, or you have infected her. Nevertheless, after much deliberation, we have voted to nominate you to join Riot on the trip to Prometer. Ironically, Riot fully endorses this course of action. Enjang will become the new Grace.”
“Enjang? No, not on my watch. I’m going to nip this in the bud right now!” Abigailius tapped on her Wristpad, grabbed her brooch and began twirling it around and poking at it.
“Sorry, my dear cousin. Your credentials no longer allow that capability.”
“Why you back-stabbing, no good…” Abigailius made as if to attack Enjang, but two attendants stepped in and restrained her.
Enjang remained composed.
“Your service will never be forgotten Abigailius, and you will have the most resplendent send-off and most exquisite sculpture made and erected in your honour. Attendants, please see the esteemed lady to her room, she is quite exhausted and needs repose, and to recompose.”
Abigailius spat at her, and with effort, all of them.
“Abigailius, shall I have a doctor administer a sedative?”
Abigailius’ fists were clenched, and her countenance was terrible, but she held her tongue.
“No! No! No!”
“Abigailius, need I remind you of the long-held Ghan tradition of a peaceful transition of power? Further, are we to believe your daughter Takiam has inherited your temperament? This could potentially compromise her nomination as leader of Manchong-Oceana…”
Abigailius weakened. Long a bully, she had been bullied into resignation.
“Sorry… please don’t let this taint Takiam’s nomination. And can you at least grant me the choice of who shall sculpt my likeness?”
“Of course, it will be an honour to ensure only the finest work is done.”
“Thank you, your Grace.”
“My pleasure, and besides, you shall be known as ‘Grace of Prometer’… surely a title one can be exceedingly proud of.”
Abigailius demurred, “Yes, yes, it is a good title.”
“Very well then, Goddess Bless Ghans and Graces.”
“Goddess Bless Ghans and Graces.”
***
The esoteric belief that “the cosmic wheel could as easily entangle evildoers with threads of their own-doings as fashion protective cl
oaks for the just” had been around since time immemorial. It made sense and felt right to one who thought little of mortality yet cherished the concept of soul and valued the laws of cause and effect.
His mentor had continued, “The great wheels perpetually turn and, eventually, liberate the good while grinding down the wrongdoers.”
It was the synthesis of Newvalutionism and one shared with recruits. Newvalutionism had also taught him to envision a universal biosphere, an enormous dynamic wheel with gigantic life-infusing cogs that touched upon individual worlds, imbuing them with boundless creativity and synchronising the various life-forces. He wasn’t sure about that doctrine, for he could not find a surrogate or create a formula to approximate it. Nevertheless, he liked the feeling of it, and Jon allowed greater latitude in his beliefs that he would in his methods and predictions.
He had become comfortable with the idea that “faith” held sway in some matters and he had faith in MEM’s machinations, and in the mind and soul of Shia Arn. But now, as he and Jess sat together at the Fountain of Youth dedicated to Bien Good, it was time to see if reality met with vision.
Being deemed of global importance, the selection of Wakees for the mission to Prometer was disseminated to everyone’s Cyclops. Riot and Wezer were just two of the many people involved in the selection process, as the children were mission-critical. Others included scientists, educators, psychologists, physicians, World Government bureaucrats, and of course, Ghan elites.
After seven years of intensive education and training, the class of five-hundred ten-year-olds had, in the past few months, been whittled down to one-hundred, and then fifty and from these, twenty-four souls would be chosen for the ten-plus year journey on board eight ships to the pristine planet.
The fifteen girls and nine boys would be charged with ensuring course adjustments were applied correctly and that the eight ships were maintained, and then, in about ten years, initiate the revival of all key personnel.
Most knew, or at least fathomed, why the mission was necessary. The Earth and Moon resources were diminishing rapidly, and population growth was still out of control. Famines were getting worse, diseases, both old and new, were spreading like wildfire, and conquest, not conciliation, was being recklessly promoted by citizens, community, corporation, and country alike. Some wondered if humankind would even survive, let alone recover from the calamity that was building on the horizon.
The twenty-third child, one Hew Satch, had already been chosen, and it was now time for the last and final selection.
“The twenty-fourth and last member of the Wakees is,” Princess Takiam paused for effect, “Shia Arn!”
Jon and Jess nearly jumped from their skins, but as they calmed down, they clasped each other’s hands warmly. A fantastic goal had been realised.
***
Hacking into Feed had proven impossible but cutting into the network of the Ghan Estate to enable the transmission of a live video was possible—albeit a short one due to countermeasures. Utilising the streaming service that allowed for Ghan-sanctioned materials, such as short documentaries and announcements to be made available to the public, a short video, inserted at the right time, would bypass editing. It would then show up as a “New File” in people’s inbox and be made available for immediate download, without “rights of redistribution” of course. But redistribution mattered little if many viewed the file and saved it to their own Wristpads.
They would have but one attempt, and it was relying on the information of the good, but dead, doctor, and the microbots. And of course, they had to wake up Mariot so people would discover the truth about her and, by inference, the cloning programme, and sinister nature of the Ghans. Jon had much work to do…
***
It wasn’t particularly well thought out. He hadn’t calculated the probability of success or odds of his survival. He was “in the moment”, and it was an epiphany to realise how infrequently he occupied that realm. For most of his life, he was considering and debating things in his head, grey-matter deep in a problem that’s wasn’t all that important or visualising outcomes and manifestations of actions in which he was only playing a peripheral role. Even now, as he was simultaneously doing the most random and dangerous thing he had ever done, he couldn’t help but analyse it to death.
“Fuck it,” he said aloud. He smiled; that felt so good!
Lactic acid had flooded his arms as he had choked the security guard with a power cord. He was shaking as he tied him up and duct-taped his mouth, not being sure that he was dead.
Tiot looked at him expectantly.
“Yes, yes, I know… I have to extract the chip from inside your PIP.”
She had already removed the PIP herself, but the locator beacon, which could also receive a signal to stun, incapacitate and maybe even kill her, was in a position she could not reach.
He took some deep breaths, calmed himself, and had her sit on a stool beside him. Thankfully he had the knowledge and tools to deal with this. He induced a small charge to her inner ear, which caused the chip to unseat slightly. It could now be pulled out with a pair of tiny tweezers, but the instant he did alarms would probably ring out and Redshirts, security guards, hell, even locusts might descend on the place.
The air-door between the CV-and-V facility and the Biodome wisped and pish-shewed, and Cheriot and Mary rolled in with the doctor navigating the transporter in tow.
“What in the Goddess is…”
Jon clocked the doctor with her kit and wrapped her up in tensor bandages and gauze.
“Hurry, we don’t have much time!”
Tiot checked in with a “Roger!” as she unhooked Cheriot and Mary.
Cheriot and Mary had both been sedated and were just coming around. Mary livened up first.
“Are we breaking out of this joint?”
He and Tiot both nodded.
The air door fluxed, and two unsuspecting security guards came in.
The two half-wrapped-up people “ah-umma-uh-ah’ing” on the floor brought them to attention.
Mary reacted first and front-kicked the guy who was about to radio for help. The other man threw his hands up, “Wait, I’m MEM!”
Tiot side-kicked him in the stomach and clobbered him with a right hand, knocking him on top of his comrade.
Mary and Tiot were going to finish them off when Jon yelled, “Wait, not that one! Not the one on the top!”
Mary launched herself through the air and came down with a punch that knocked out the man on the bottom. Tiot had the other man’s throat in her hands.
“Mehh… mehm… ba.”
“I should not kill him?” Tiot questioned.
“Please wait a moment, Tiot. What’s your passcode friend?”
“G0P5F informant.”
He punched the code into his Wristpad, and it authenticated the man, Tiler Lleaki.
“Please let him go.”
Tiot looked at him for reassurance; he nodded, and she released her death clutch.
“We’re busting these ladies out of here Tiler.”
“That’s a tall order.”
“Know anyone who can help us?”
“Ya, I do, but he’s a bit of a nutball.”
“I don’t care, as long as he’s trustworthy.”
“He is. He’s a data analyst who contracted-in a while ago… made it pretty well known to me over some beers he would do anything to spring Mary. But I’m warning you, the guy’s not all there… when he’s on break, he’s doing push-ups and callisthenics, and all the while saying, ‘Let Yugons be bygones’.”
“How can he help?”
“He has counterfeited a passcode that allows him to bring in what he calls ‘supplements’ to the clones, stuff he says helps them resist mind-invasion.”
“What’s his name?”
“He goes by Mister Change but told me to call him Lester.”
He was stunned—Lester, what a coincidence.
“Can you reach him now?”
“
Yeppers, he’s on the other side of the bio-door… waiting for me to tell him if the girls are ‘fit and fine’.”
“Go and get him.”
The man headed out, and a moment later, Lester Mistre was standing in front of him, barely recognisable from the Lester he knew.
“Mr Change indeed. Lester? Is that really you?”
Lester had been transformed from a pencil-neck introvert to a buff extrovert; he had put on 20 or 30 pounds of muscle.
“Yep, it’s me, Daco.”
“What happened?”
“Long story short, I was menhanced from weenie to sausage and then escaped those sons-a-bitches.”
Apparently, they had menhanced his use of language too.
“Sounds like quite a story. I’m glad you survived the ordeal and would love to hear all about it, but we have to get out of this place!”
Lester looked down at the incapacitated individuals.
“You responsible for any of that?”
“Those two,” he pointed at them.
Lester slapped his back hard enough to make him stumble forward, “Good work Daco!”
Mary piped up, “Can you guys put off the reunion to another time? We probably only have five minutes to get a plan together.”
“You’re right.”
“I’ve already got a plan,” Lester offered.
“Go ahead, Lester.”
“I’ve got a hardened delivery vehicle that doubles as my home. It’s now pretty tricked-out… always had it in mind to bust out Mary. Now’s the time.”
“How?”
“I have special permission to use it to bring goods in and out of the secured perimeter. Usually, they just wave me through, so providing we leave now, we can probably get on the road before they raise the alarm. After that, I was hoping MEM can help us.”
“I’ve got an idea about that. But first, we have to remove the ladies’ tracking chips.”
It only took two minutes, and the chips were out, and Mary, Cheriot, and Tiot received their first taste of freedom. Of them all, Cheriot smiled the widest as she hugged Mary. He didn’t know either had it in them.