Ethos

by Aaron Dworkin

  He turned a stern gaze on Councilor Tsikovna. “Continue,” he said calmly.

  The afternoon passed in much the same vein. Tsikovna went through a litany of accusations against Kinnion and the Warped Immortals, arguing that they were unlike the true Immortals of Flint, that they had time and again shown aggression toward Flint and threatened the very survival of its citizens, and that they pursued ethea that should be considered null and void by the Immortal Council due to their propensity toward spreading darkness and negativity in Ethos.

  Councilor Russo objected again and again, on the grounds that Tsikovna’s accusations were based on hearsay and supposition. But his dissent went unheeded; the justices of the High Court systematically overruled each objection. Russo tried to argue that Flint intelligence on actual daily life in Detroit was murky at best and that Detroit’s aggressions toward Flint had by and large been in response to Flint’s aggressions toward Detroit, but he was repeatedly silenced.

  Popular opinion in City Hall was swaying ever more strongly toward Malcolm and away from Kinnion. With every new incrimination lobbed by Tsikovna, the rumblings in the hall amplified, and the crowd became increasingly agitated. Every now and then, someone would even burst out with a slur against Kinnion, and the public would have to be called to order by Chief Justice Ianjuana’s gavel.

  Kinnion, throughout all of this, sat rigid and unmoved, his gaze trained steadily on Tsikovna, listening intently. When insults were hurled in his direction, he did not flinch; instead, he merely watched and waited.

  His defense attorney, unfortunately for him, was less unwavering. Councilor Russo was clearly rattled by his inability to break through Tsikovna’s fortress of charges. Finally, late in the afternoon, he rose from his seat in the middle of one of Tsikovna’s sentences, his white-knuckled fists pressing into the metal surface of the defense table.

  “I demand a recess,” he seethed. “This court is illegitimate! I charge that both the justices and the prosecution are biased toward the Flint Immortal Council and that the justices cannot rule impartially in this matter. My clients do not have the opportunity for a fair hearing. I demand a recess so that the High Court may recuse itself due to conflicts of interest, and a new, impartial panel of judges may be appointed by collaboration of the Flint and Detroit Councils.”

  The hall exploded into shouts.

  “Treason!” an Immortal shouted from the spectators’ gallery.

  “That’s ridiculous!” someone else called.

  Chief Justice Ianjuana threw back his head and let out a rumbling laugh.

  “Are you actually suggesting that I allow the defendants to be tried by their co-conspirators in treason?”

  Councilor Russo burst forward from behind the defense table and rushed toward the bench.

  “That very question proves your bias!” Russo said, his voice quivering. “You have assumed before establishment of guilt that the defendants conspired to commit treason!”

  Chief Justice cracked his gavel resoundingly against the gleaming wood. “You do not have leave to approach the bench!” he shouted.

  Councilor Russo, undeterred, charged forward. “You cannot claim co-conspiracy until it is proven that my clients conspired in the first place!”

  “You do not have leave to approach the bench!” Chief Justice Ianjuana bellowed again, his face reddening in fury. He rapped the gavel repeatedly on the bench, then suddenly lifted a hand and motioned the bailiff forward.

  “Councilor Russo, you are in contempt of court,” Chief Justice Ianjuana thundered as the bailiff sprang toward the small councilor and wrenched his arms behind his back.

  “And,” the Chief Justice continued, a vein pulsing furiously in his neck, “you are dangerously close to picking up a charge of treason yourself. You will be held by this court until further notice and your clients will be appointed new counsel.”

  Councilor Russo was taken completely by surprise. He writhed against the cuffs that had been slapped on him and continued to struggle even as the much larger bailiff dragged him out of City Hall, amid cries and jeers from the assembled Flint citizens.

  “This is an outrage! This is a disgrace to the Constitution of Flint! I demand a retrial! I demand redress! Chancellor Malcolm, I call on you, by the integrity of your administration, to intervene!” Councilor Russo screamed as the bailiff dragged him away. “Chancellor Malcolm! Chancellor Malcolm!”

  A set of heat-activated sliding doors behind the justices’ bench closed smoothly behind Russo and the bailiff, leaving a reverberating silence in their wake.

  Suddenly, into this silence, Malcolm stepped forward from his place in the first row among the Immortal Councilors. Again, a flurry of voices rose and passed through the assembled Immortals and Bereft as Malcolm strode decisively to the front of the hall and took a place at its precise center, in front of the justices’ bench, his back to them so that he faced the agitated spectators in the gallery.

  He stood looking at the citizens of Flint, his eyes stony, a crease of worry marring his brow.

  Finally, very softly, so that his voice barely carried over the vaulted ceiling of City Hall, he spoke.

  “Councilor Russo has raised a grievous charge against this court,” he said. “And I regret to say that I am moved by his argument. We have assembled a court of justices, a prosecution, and a defense comprised solely of Flint Immortals. Our constitution calls for a trial by the defendants’ peers. We have made the claim that the residents of Detroit are de facto under the jurisdiction of Flint, as their constitution and government are illegitimate. It only stands to reason, then, that residents of Detroit should be represented in the body passing judgment.”

  The spectators’ gallery remained deathly quiet. Not even the Immortal Councilors dared move or breathe. It was clear as day that what Malcolm was proposing would seriously jeopardize a guilty verdict against Kinnion, and yet so great was the respect Malcolm commanded among his public that no one dared counter his argument.

  Finally, Councilor Floyd, who was seated on the right side of the hall among his colleagues, stood.

  Somberly, with great dignity, he said, “Our Chancellor Malcolm has once again proven his commitment to the democratic values of Flint society. I move that his suggestion be immediately adopted by this court, and that we adjourn immediately so that an unbiased bench may be assembled.”

  Another councilor, Councilor Gyllean, stood from several rows back. “Second!” Her voice rang out clearly.

  Chief Justice Ianjuana’s face had gone stark white. He raised his gavel and struck one defeated thwack on the bench.

  “The motion is adopted by this court,” he said, his voice tight, catching in his throat. “Adjourned.”

  At first glance, the justices’ bench looked much the same as it had two days before. Seven youthful-looking Immortals sat behind the bench, dressed in voluminous black robes, their expressions somber. And yet everything about this panel of justices was radically reformed.

  All seven of the justices from two days prior, including Chief Justice Ianjuana, had been dismissed. The new panel was a split between judges from Flint and judges from Detroit. They still totaled seven, so that there might be a tie-breaking vote; however, as a counterbalance to selecting only three Detroit judges to Flint’s four, the Chief Justice had been appointed from among Detroit’s number.

  Chief Justice Mboma was a man who looked to be no more than twenty-five years old, though his days came to precisely one century. He remembered the unstable times following the reformation of civilization after the Great Genetic War, when the governments of both Flint and Detroit were still nascent, and the conflict between the two city-states was inconceivable.

  His skin was a deep mahogany brown, glowing smoothly over high cheekbones and a noble brow. He held himself with poise and the kind of inner quietude that comes only from life lived and experience gained.

  As he gaveled the court to order, the spectators’ gallery fell instantly silent, awed by his singular
presence.

  “We are here assembled in the case of the Flint Immortal Council versus Chancellor Kinnion of Detroit and co-defendants,” Chief Justice Mboma said. “As the charges are grievous, they must be weighed fairly. My colleagues and I come together from the judiciaries of both Flint and Detroit so that justice in this matter may be served. Would the lead attorneys for the prosecution and the defense please approach the bench?”

  Councilor Tsikovna and Councilor Russo—who had proven not only his fair-mindedness but also his courage, and as such had been asked specifically by the defendants to remain in his position as their counsel—stood and approached the bench. A short conference with Chief Justice Mboma ensued.

  As the two attorneys returned to their places after conferring with him, Chief Justice Mboma addressed the hall at large.

  “As guilt or innocence in this matter is rooted in biological fact, the attorneys for the prosecution have agreed to dispense with further arguments. Debate on theoretical grounds is, in this specific case, largely an academic exercise.”

  The chamber hummed with its usual chorus of awe and surprise.

  “Simply put,” Chief Justice Mboma continued, “it is the position of this court, after consultation with various geneticists, physicians, and immortality experts, that an illegitimate ethos would result in compromised immortality. Compromised immortality is not a vague notion subject to debate. It can be positively determined under scientific scrutiny.

  “Councilor Russo has informed the court that his clients agree to submit to a rigorous test of their immortality. This will settle the matter of their guilt or innocence with regard to the second charge against them—fraudulent claims of immortality. Should their claims be found to be legitimate, then the war they have waged against Flint is likewise justified, and the charge of treason will be dismissed. Should their immortality be found to be compromised . . . the court shall abandon them to their genetic fate among the Fallen.”

  This last declaration was met with a brief moment of stunned silence—and then, spontaneously, the City Hall burst into warm applause. In the estimation of the assembled citizens, Chief Justice Mboma and his colleagues at the bench had ruled wisely and well.

  Councilor Russo rose from his place at the defense table.

  “As expert witness,” Russo said, “the defense calls Dr. Xe.”

  A petite, willowy Immortal in a white lab coat came to the front of the room. She wore her gleaming, straight black hair in a simple bob that fell to her jawline.

  She faced the wide expanse of City Hall. “To establish the purity of the defendants’ immortality, I will perform a simple test of healing rate and accuracy before the witnessing eye of our esteemed Chancellor Malcolm and all those gathered here today. Those of you who have ever had doubt of your own immortality are already familiar with this test.”

  She paused and turned toward the defendants’ table.

  “Chancellor Kinnion,” she said, “would you please come forward?”

  Chancellor Kinnion rose and advanced toward Dr. Xe without hesitation. He was broad-shouldered enough that he cast an ominous shadow, but Dr. Xe did not flinch. The moment Kinnion was within striking distance, Xe drew a long, curved knife from beneath her jacket, so swiftly and skillfully that the blade seemed to appear in her hand out of thin air. Then she brought the blade down in a diagonal motion, slicing a long, deep furrow into the flesh of Kinnion’s forearm.

  If Chancellor Kinnion was in the slightest bit surprised by any of this, he did not show it. He made no movement to parry Xe’s attack, and his only reaction to the deep fissure that appeared in his forearm and quickly began to leak rivulets of dark red blood was to blink once, almost languidly.

  As quickly as she had drawn it, Xe sheathed the blade, still slick with Kinnion’s blood. She was moving so fast that it was difficult to discern one of her hands from the other. She withdrew what looked to be a set of calipers from some other secret pocket within her jacket and enclosed Kinnion’s wrist tightly with her free hand. She set the calipers against the wound she had just made, oblivious to any pain this might cause Kinnion.

  Again, he did not react. He had clearly been prepped by his counsel for this test, and as a matter of pride, he refused to show any sign of weakness in front of a hall filled with Flint citizens.

  Xe was watching her instrument intently. Its edges were now glowing a warm blue as it began to take automatic measurements of the wound in Kinnion’s arm.

  The entire hall waited as if suspended from a single wire—but barely ten seconds passed before she announced, dispassionately: “Healed.”

  Xe lifted Kinnion’s arm above her head by the wrist to show that the wound had, indeed, completely healed. The skin was knitted up and smooth as if the knife had never touched it.

  Xe released Kinnion, and turned to face the judge’s bench.

  “Rate of regeneration,” she said, “Five hundred thousand cells per second. Accuracy and health of tissue regrowth, 97.92 percent.”

  The justices all waited expectantly for her to expand upon these figures.

  “This data is well within the range of healthy immortality,” Xe said. “In fact, the degree of tissue regrowth is exceptional, within the ninety-ninth percentile of the Immortal population, based on a 2517 study of two hundred healthy male Immortals from the city of Flint, aged between one hundred and one hundred and twelve years old.”

  Kinnion was already moving back to his seat, his pace measured, his chin held high, and an inscrutable expression on his face. He was clearly pleased with his results, but this triumph was tempered by the sheer annoyance that such a test had been administered in the first place.

  One by one, Kinnion’s eleven advisors stood and submitted to the test. Each one passed “within the range of healthy immortality,” with Xe occasionally announcing some interesting factoid, should their regenerative performance be somehow notable or outstanding. Not a single one showed any below average figures, or even any figures that could be called less than excellent.

  As the seventh of the advisors was making his way haughtily back to the defense table, Councilor Tsikovna suddenly stood up, her jaw working soundlessly with pent-up rage and frustration.

  “Enough,” she barked. “We have the evidence we need. Enough of this propagandist display. The prosecution withdraws the charges.”

  But Chief Justice Mboma put up a polite hand to silence her. “We will continue the testing,” he said. “A serious accusation has been leveled, and it is only fair—to both the citizens of Flint and Detroit—to thoroughly and completely prove or disprove it.”

  Tsikovna flounced back into her seat as if pushed and remained mute and flushed as the remaining four advisors stood to withstand the procedure.

  Finally, the last of them took her seat, her forearm healed as cleanly as the skin of a newborn.

  Dr. Xe replaced her instrument in the pocket of her jacket and announced to the room, “It is my medical opinion that these Immortals are uncompromised and live according to the biological influence of healthy, sound, and normal ethea.”

  Councilor Russo stood up from the defense table.

  “Thank you for your contribution to justice,” he told Dr. Xe warmly. As she made her way past the defense table toward the City Hall exit, Russo turned to Chief Justice Mboma. “The defense rests,” he said simply, and sat down.

  Chief Justice Mboma turned and looked at each of his colleagues behind the justices’ bench one by one. Silent agreement passed between them. Then he turned out and addressed City Hall at large.

  “Further deliberations are not necessary. Neither is subjecting the defendants to any further futile scrutiny or unfair insinuations. This High Court of Flint finds Chancellor Kinnion and his co-defendants innocent of the charge of fraud, and we hereby drop the charge of treason.”

  Malcolm and David were sitting in Malcolm’s office in the western wing of City Hall. They were silent, Malcolm gazing out the large bay window at the busy street below,
and David looking awkwardly at his hands.

  Finally, Malcolm turned to David and said simply, quietly, “I’ve acted against my ethos.”

  David’s impulse was to protest, to try to reassure his son. But one look at Malcolm’s face told him that this might do more harm than good. Malcolm was drawn and tired looking, a kind of desperate anxiety working under the surface of his apparent calm. Besides, David knew that his son was right. He was no expert in the ways of Ethos, but he had joined the ranks of the Immortals now, and he could sense how crippling it would be to do anything that ran counter to the biological force that had awakened within him, supporting his immortality.

  And Malcolm had, indeed, violated his ethos. If righteous battle was his singular purpose, how could he justify the Flint offensive against Detroit? Malcolm had allowed himself to get swept away by his zeal and his boundless energy, and he had led an entire city of warriors into battle not to vanquish a real foe, but instead to cause havoc and destruction among a people whose only crime was being different from the people among whom Malcolm lived and governed.

  The evidence revealed in the High Court was incontrovertible. The Detroit Immortals—for so they were, not “Warped” Immortals, but simply Immortals, just like those of Flint—had done nothing wrong. Sure, their culture did not mirror that of Flint exactly. Sure, they might have caused some fear and concern among the people of Detroit. But the proceedings of the High Court had revealed that all of this suspicion was fed by simple hearsay. Hearsay and rumor and assumption. Nothing more.

  There was nothing righteous about this.

  But there was also nothing in David that wanted to condemn Malcolm for his actions. After all, David himself was driven by his singular devotion to Malcolm and to Nev. He could not bring himself to rub Malcolm’s nose in his error. Malcolm might be an Immortal, but he was also a teenager. He had gotten caught up in his callow, overeager, and under-experienced emotions. What teenager hadn’t been guilty of such a mistake at some point?