Ethos

by Aaron Dworkin

  The officer closest to Malcolm looked backward over his shoulder at Kinnion, then returned his gaze to Malcolm. It was evident that he was torn, having first received orders from the Immortal Council and now confronting opposing orders from the Ethosian Chancellor.

  Calmly, Malcolm raised a gloved hand and stepped forward toward the police officers. The army warriors advanced steadily with him.

  “You are under no suspicion at present,” Malcolm said. “You have been following orders according to the proper chain of command. But I am telling you now that Councilor Kinnion is acting independently of my will, and should you proceed any further in following his commands, you will be considered a traitor to the city of Ethos. Lay down your weapons now, and this transgression will be forgotten.”

  There was a clattering toward the back of the warehouse. One of the officers had thrown down his biotoggler.

  In unison, the remaining six officers followed suit.

  With the threat of the officers’ biotogglers neutralized, Malcolm advanced confidently across the warehouse floor until he stood directly opposite Kinnion. The other Immortal Councilors had tightened their circle around the DNA Lock, which was still humming almost benignly.

  “Where is my father?” Malcolm said, his voice low and even.

  “Your father?” Councilor Kinnion asked. His face registered both shock and confusion.

  Malcolm gave one sharp nod. “Commander David is my father. I would advise you to reveal his location to me and to release him into my custody at once, or I will have you toggled without process under Code 74-A of the Ethosian laws against sedition by Immortal Councilors.”

  Councilor Kinnion’s expression was tight, but he continued to meet Malcolm’s gaze without faltering, his body an impassive shield between Malcolm and the DNA Lock.

  “Once again,” Malcolm said, his voice beginning to quake with rage, “where is my father?”

  Suddenly, Kinnion took one step aside and indicated the DNA Lock. “Commander David has been found guilty of intergenetic marriage by the Security and Intelligence Committee of the Immortal Council. He has been sentenced to genetic stasis, and the sentence is in process of being carried out.”

  Malcolm squinted at the coffin-like metal box before him. He had never seen anything remotely resembling it—and he did not know what Councilor Kinnion meant by “genetic stasis.” For a moment, he hesitated. This was the first time since the beginning of his chancellorship that he found himself ignorant of some inner working of the Ethosian world. And worse, he had no idea whether this ignorance would be surprising to the Immortal Councilors or not. He didn’t know if “genetic stasis” was a common term that any Ethosian might be expected to recognize, or if it was something obscure. He vacillated, unsure whether revealing his ignorance might put him in danger of being found out as a time traveler.

  Councilor Kinnion seemed to interpret Malcolm’s silence as shock. “Nothing here is illegitimate, Chancellor Malcolm,” he said, his voice measured and conciliatory. “We have followed due process under the Immortal Council rules. The crime of intermarriage is egregious, as it puts our very survival as a species in jeopardy. Immediate action had to be taken. Ethos was in existential peril.”

  Malcolm still hesitated, mutely. Survival? Existential peril? He couldn’t reconcile what Councilor Kinnion was saying with what to him was a fairly innocuous fact: his father had married the woman he loved. It might have been an illegal marriage, but it was certainly not a contract that put anyone’s existence in jeopardy. What was Councilor Kinnion getting at?

  “Once again,” Malcolm said, straining with every ounce of his self-control to keep his voice from breaking, “I ask you. Where is my father?”

  Councilor Kinnion’s brow furrowed in genuine bewilderment. “I’ve told you,” he said. “We’ve initiated the sentence of genetic stasis. He’s in the DNA Lock.” He waved a hand at the metal box behind him.

  Malcolm moved without thinking. He sprang forward, pushing Kinnion roughly to one side and grabbing a second Immortal Councilor who stood nearest the DNA Lock by the collar of his black robe. He thrust this councilor aside so roughly that the man lost his footing, his feet catching in the long hem of his garment, and toppled to the concrete warehouse floor.

  Blindly, wild with panic and confusion, Malcolm began to clutch at the metal surface of the DNA Lock’s lid. He could not find a handle or lever. The box’s lid was smooth and unbroken. He could hear some kind of soft hum emanating from its depths, like the whispering of an electric fan, but he could not see where it was coming from, much less understand what it was doing or what it meant. He began to bang senselessly against the flat surface of the lid, and when this yielded only hollow echoes, he turned to pushing randomly at the touchscreen on the far end of the box.

  “DNA nullification in progress,” a detached, digital voice said impassively from somewhere within the DNA Lock. “Do not enter commands at this time.”

  Malcolm smashed a fist into the touchscreen in frustration.

  “Commands cannot be entered at this time,” the voice repeated in its maddening monotone.

  Councilor Kinnion put a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder.

  “Chancellor Malcolm,” he said softly, his voice surprisingly gentle. “It had to be done. You must understand that interbreeding could undermine the foundations of Ethos. The integrity of the genetic basis for immortality could be compromised.”

  Malcolm found himself turning in desperation towards Councilor Kinnion, trying to understand what he was saying even as a panicked voice deep within himself told him that he had to stop whatever was happening without any further delay.

  “We didn’t want to do this,” Councilor Kinnion said. “This isn’t personal. This isn’t to hurt you. It was the only way to protect Ethos—to protect all of us, yourself included—from a profound biological threat and possible destruction.”

  Malcolm looked around wildly, searching the faces of the gathered Immortal Councilors, willing one of them to explain to him just what the hell was going on, to tell him how to open this box and free his father from a procedure he did not recognize or understand.

  The DNA Lock continued to whirr maddeningly, oblivious to Malcolm’s horror and frustration.

  Malcolm seized a fistful of Councilor Kinnion’s robe. In his terror, he no longer cared if Kinnion knew that he didn’t know what genetic stasis was. What he did know was that the DNA Lock posed some kind of mortal threat to David, and all he wanted was to release his father.

  “What are you doing to him?” Malcolm cried. “Let him go!”

  Councilor Kinnion shook his head, a look of genuine helplessness passing over his face. “The DNA Lock can’t be interrupted, Chancellor Malcolm,” he said. “You know that. Even if I wanted to stop it, I wouldn’t be able to.”

  Malcolm heard a strangled cry escape from his own lips and he turned again to the DNA Lock, pounding against its soldered sides so violently that searing pain began to spark upward from his balled fists. He ignored the pain, continuing instead to strike and clutch at the surface of the lid.

  “What are you doing to him?” he screamed again.

  Councilor Kinnion’s steely detachment gave way at the sight of Malcolm’s panic. Some of the other Immortal Councilors made moves to reach for Malcolm and pull him away, but Kinnion put out his arms, shielding Malcolm from them. Then, he put his hands firmly on Malcolm’s shoulders.

  “We had no choice,” he said. “This isn’t what we wanted, and we meant you no harm. This was for Ethos. This wasn’t to hurt you or even Commander David. This was for Ethos.”

  Suddenly, the DNA Lock went completely silent.

  Malcolm, limp and exhausted from his fear, turned to look at it dumbly.

  There was a clicking sound from within the recesses of the box, and the lid slid open of its own accord.

  David was lying inside. He looked completely unscathed. His eyes were closed; his skin was unbroken and bright. He looked as if he were simply
asleep.

  Malcolm seized him by the shoulders and lifted his upper body out of the DNA Lock.

  David’s head lolled backward and his mouth fell open.

  There was no strength or life in his muscles.

  Malcolm registered this reality slowly, in stages. He tried to catch David’s head as it fell back, and as he did, David’s shoulders slipped from his grasp, and his body crumpled and fell backward into the DNA Lock.

  There was no mistaking this for sleep.

  David was gone.

  itizens of Ethos were processing single-file past David’s open casket at the head of City Hall. They bore expressions ranging from tense masks of grief to open sorrow, some weeping unabashedly. Several thousand Ethosians, Bereft and Immortal alike, had turned out for the state funeral, which David had earned first as a hero of the Flint-Detroit Conflict and then as an instrumental figure in the unification of Ethos during his tenure as Interim Chancellor.

  The Security and Intelligence Committee of the Immortal Council had granted Malcolm permission to hold a public funeral, out of respect for David’s accomplishments on behalf of the citizens of Ethos. Prior to the funeral, however, they had distributed tens of thousands of leaflets and secured lengthy segments on the city’s primary news networks, with the aim of impressing upon the Ethosian public the extent and severity of David’s crime against Immortality.

  Despite this propaganda campaign, City Hall was full of mourners. The crowd overflowed the spectators’ gallery and spilled onto the street outside the building, extending for several blocks. The police had been obliged to close the neighborhood to traffic, which hardly mattered, since few Ethosians were going about their regular affairs that day. Many businesses had closed and offered employees the day off to attend the funeral. Schools and other city institutions were officially closed in homage to David.

  Those who had arrived early enough to squeeze into the hall and stake out some small standing room or even a seat in the spectators’ gallery were arrayed in no particular order. Once again, Malcolm had insisted on dispensing with the tradition of segregating Bereft from Immortals. All Ethosians mingled as equals in their shared sense of grief and loss.

  The Immortal Councilors who had directly brought about David’s genetic stasis were present too. Councilor Kinnion, Councilor Kashay, and the other members of the Security and Intelligence Committee were seated in a cluster at the front of the Immortal Councilors’ gallery. No one seemed to reproach them their presence—or even regret what they had done. Their propaganda campaign against David had, in that sense, succeeded.

  The assembled citizens bore no ill will toward David, recognizing that his crime had been one of human weakness and passion, to which any one of them might be equally susceptible. And yet they seemed to unquestioningly accept that his fate had been deserved—even necessary. The mood was as if he had died of a progressive and incurable disease. To them, his passing was inevitable, and although he was not blameworthy for it, there was no sense in any other reaction now but acceptance. Councilor Kinnion’s line of reasoning had prevailed: David had to die to protect Ethos; it could be no other way.

  Malcolm sat mutely in his place at the head of City Hall, behind the coffin, watching the hours-long procession of citizens coming to pay their last respects to David. As citizen after citizen passed in an interminable show of grief, Malcolm’s face remained impassive, betraying no emotion. In the wake of that terrible night at the warehouse, he had passed from blind rage and disbelief into a sort of determined numbness. He had spent most of the ensuing days back in the twenty-first century, with his mother, effectively hiding from Ethos. Now, he was back, and he was prepared. He would mourn for his father, but not yet. There was too much to do.

  After the funeral, Councilor Kinnion planned to lay David’s body to rest in the Cemetery of the Immortals. This was a small, secluded place at the southeastern corner of the former Flint, near what had once been called Thread Lake and was renamed, after the Great Genetic War, the Lake of Immortality. There were very few bodies interred in this cemetery. It was, after all, rare for an Immortal to die. One corner was reserved for the Fallen, another, smaller section bore the graves of those who had died of catastrophic wounds, too great for their immortality to contend with. The majority of these were heroes of the Flint-Detroit Conflict.

  And finally, there was a very small section of the cemetery entirely secluded from the rest, in a shadowy, tree-rimmed plot of land. This was where the condemned were laid to rest, in above-ground mausoleums. Those rare Immortals who had committed crimes grievous enough to warrant genetic stasis were brought here. Their looming vaults served as a sort of warning to other wayward Immortals, as if to say, “Be careful. Immortality does not mean invincibility.”

  Malcolm had agreed to this ignominious final resting place largely to appease Kinnion. Let him and the other nefarious members of the Committee think they had won. Let them believe that Malcolm had been convinced of the justice of his father’s death. If he had to swallow his pride temporarily to placate the Committee members, so be it. They would get their due soon enough.

  The procession of mourners in City Hall was beginning to dwindle. Over the course of the long afternoon, all those present had had the opportunity to file solemnly past the coffin and gaze at David’s still life-like body. After proceeding past the casket, they took seats in the spectators’ gallery and crammed into the back of the hall, or even stood in the crowded street outside. And they waited. It had been announced that Malcolm would offer remarks before the casket was transferred to the Cemetery of the Immortals, and all those present wanted to hear how he would eulogize his father. After Malcolm had revealed his identity to Kinnion on the night of David’s capture, the secret had spread unimpeded. All of Ethos now knew that Malcolm was David’s son.

  Malcolm stood and crossed the short distance to the vibramp set up beside David’s coffin. He stood for a moment in silence, gazing out at the Immortal Councilors and citizens who filled the hall. A hush fell over the crowd.

  “Friends,” Malcolm said, the vibramp grasping hold of the vibrations of his voice and amplifying their reach, so that the citizens heard him as clearly and intimately as if he were whispering in their ears.

  “Ethosians. Fellow citizens. I stand before you today under the good auspices and with permission of the Security and Intelligence Committee, prepared to join you in bidding farewell to a statesman, a statesman that the Committee itself condemned to genetic stasis—not without cause. If he was guilty of the crime of endangering the immortal bloodline, it was a grievous fault. And grievously has he answered for it. I stand before you, then, not to dispute the findings of the Committee, but merely to offer final respects. The Committee is fair in according me this kindness.”

  Malcolm paused and swallowed. Then, very clearly, almost slowly, he said, “David was my father.”

  The onlookers shifted and exchanged glances in their seats at Malcolm’s frank confirmation of the rumor they all had heard.

  “Yes,” Malcolm continued, in response to their reaction. “He was my father, loyal and loving to me. In fact, it was his very ethos to be so. He earned his Immortality by devoting his life to me, and through his support for me, your Chancellor, he devoted his life to the people of Ethos. But the Committee has said he was a traitor to the bloodline—and the Committee is honorable and just.

  “David risked his life for your freedom and the enduring peace of Ethos as a commander in the Flint-Detroit Conflict. It is hard to reconcile this selflessness and courage with the charge of endangerment of the people of Ethos. We all saw that David mourned with us over those killed and celebrated with us at the dawning of newfound peace. You would think a traitor would be colder, less generous to his fellow citizens, more reserved. Yet the Committee found him guilty—and the Committee stands for honor and justice.

  “You all witnessed David’s tireless work for the unification of Flint and Detroit into the single city of Ethos. This unificatio
n brought a permanent end to the distrust, misunderstanding, and outright discord between our two communities. It ensured opportunity and safety for all Ethosian citizens. Was this treasonous? Was this threatening? Was it endangerment?”

  Malcolm paused, as if considering. His voice held no sarcasm, no irony. He merely asked the questions, earnestly, and then paused, genuinely considering.

  “Yet the Committee found him guilty. And, surely, the Committee is just.”

  A murmur swept through the gathered Ethosians as they joined Malcolm is weighing what he said. But Malcolm did not allow the moment to linger. He continued quickly.

  “I do not seek to disprove the Committee’s findings. But I am here to tell you what I know is true. You all loved David once. Rightly so. You loved him as he loved you in return. What then should keep any of us from mourning his loss?”

  Malcolm’s voice wavered, and he allowed his gaze to drop to the podium.

  “Forgive me,” he said softly.

  Voices stirred among the assembled citizens.

  “Think about it,” an Immortal citizen whispered to her friend beside her. “David should have been given the benefit of the doubt. He should have been offered leniency. The punishment doesn’t match the crime—not when you consider what he did for us.”

  But her friend shook her head firmly. “We can’t know what would have happened had he been allowed to proceed unchecked. It could have been devastating for Ethos.”

  “But didn’t you hear what Malcolm said?” The first rejoined. “His ethos was love for and loyalty to Malcolm, who serves us. He couldn’t have caused us harm even if he wanted to.”

  “If that’s true,” the second answered barely above a whisper, “the Committee has allowed a serious miscarriage of justice.”