by Benton, Ken
“Ricky,” Tom said, “you are able to be out here solely because of stress. It’s temporary. I’ve seen one other case of this, and heard about a couple others. When your adrenaline settles, the sunlight will return to being repulsive to you. I’m betting even now your fear of it is growing again.”
“How much?” Ricky asked smiling.
Tom shook his head. “I wouldn’t act so proud. If you can stay out another hour and still keep talking to me with the same demeanor, I’ll eat my words. Understand that I’m a trained psychologist, so you won’t be able to fool me.”
“You haven’t seen any other nocturnals switch?”
“No, Ricky. And vice-versa. Never even heard of one. Have you?”
“I’m from the country,” Ricky said. “But there was this one weird guy in the neighborhood for a while who went both ways.”
“You ever talk to him?”
“Once, when we were chasing a hog across their field. I expected him to yell at us to get off the property, but he only asked us a couple strange questions and then started talking all philosophical. Threw us for a loop. The hog got away.”
“That sounds like a cathemeral all right. You can pick them out of a crowd. I know you’re not one. They belong in a nuthouse.”
“Rumor is this guy came from one. But have you ever wondered if maybe the rest of us are really the ones who belong in a nuthouse? Ever since Helios, I mean. For crying out loud, we are all afraid of either the sun or the night.”
Tom chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I have. You saying that, however, causes me to wonder if I’m wrong about you not being one of them. Or possibly turning into one.”
“How about this?” Ricky asked. “If I’m still out here in an hour, and you are satisfied with my ‘demeanor,’ you take my case. Carlin said it’s an easy one, and we already have the defense worked out.”
“What about Carlin, then? I don’t want to step on his toes.”
“He dropped me when I admitted to him that I solicited your services last night. Acted all hurt and spiteful.”
Tom felt a frown form on his face. “Well I don’t like that, so it’s a deal. One hour.”
Tom went back to his walking, but did not wait more than twenty minutes before approaching the yard captain. He could tell Ricky was in no more stress than when they talked, and by all accounts he should have been. Heck, if anything, he only appeared happier.
“I need to speak to the magistrate,” Tom said to the yard captain.
The yard captain reached for a clipboard on top the haystack he stood next to and flipped through the first few papers.
“You’re not on the schedule, Tom.”
“I know. Something has come up.”
“Something important?”
“I think so. A nocturnal prisoner has turned diurnal and requested my counsel, and a tribunal rescheduling.”
“A nocturnal prisoner has … what? Who?”
“The one in the Panama hat. His name is Ricky Danson. Was in the barracks trying to sleep an hour ago. Just walked outside and decided to be diurnal instead.”
The yard captain set his clipboard down. “How long has he been outside for?”
“Long enough for me to see it’s legit.”
“Well then he must be one of those jokers who came in playing games with us.”
“He was outdoors all last night.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Yes.”
The yard captain tilted his head. “All right. Follow me.”
* * *
“Crops are planted, tended, and harvested in the daytime,” Ricky answered. “That fact creates an injustice.”
The man in the sports coat standing next to him assumed a thoughtful pose. At least he wasn’t instantly argumentative. He reminded Ricky of a preacher the way he was dressed. Two others had wandered over and joined the conversation as well. One was heavyset and wore a Hawaiian shirt. The other had an old Atlanta Braves cap on and was about Joel’s age.
“Why can’t all of those activities be done at night, too?” the preacher-looking one finally replied.
“I’ve discussed that with my housemates,” Ricky said. “We all agree. The physical actions can be taken, but we don’t like our chances of bringing in a decent harvest without help from a dayshift. It’s hard to explain, but farming just isn’t practical to do at night. Things like soil prep, planting, tending, weeding, and even harvesting require better lighting.”
“You wouldn’t be able to tell what kind of seeds you’re planting,” the one in the baseball cap commented.
Ricky made an effort to smile at him.
The preacher-looking one made an indignant face. “So you’re saying the diurnals should do all the farming but share the crops with you noctos, in order to prevent a social injustice, simply because it would be harder to do at night? I don’t know about that, friend. Forgive me for saying it sounds like issues of entitlement from lazy folk.”
Ricky held up a hand. “I’m not saying the farmers shouldn’t be compensated. Just willing to trade an equal portion for goods and services provided by nocturnals.”
“And pray tell what might those be?”
“Well for one thing, we can protect the crops at night, not to mention the neighborhood.”
Baseball cap laughed. “You’re the ones we need protection from!”
“From nocturnal animals and outsiders, I mean,” Ricky answered. “And we can be responsible for the chores which are easy to do at night, like irrigation. Believe it or not we produce food as well. Mostly meat from night critters like hogs, possums…”
“Snakes, coons, coyotes, skunks,” preacher said. “Things no one wants to eat, saving the hogs I suppose. I don’t eat much pork myself, so you don’t even have anything appealing to trade. And watering can just as easily be done in the daytime.”
“What about catfish?” Ricky asked.
Preacher smiled. “Now you’re talking to my appetite, friend. Nothing I like better, assuming it’s properly fried up and served with hot sauce. But I can catch those in the daytime, too.”
“Not like I can catch them at night,” Ricky said. “The big ones only bite then. In my town I bring a steady supply of 4-10 pound cats to our neighborhood trading post. And the di’s love to trade for them, too. Unfortunately a catfish trade gone bad is what put me in here. But my point is that economic cooperation is possible, and both sides can contribute equally.”
“But supposing they can’t contribute equally,” preacher argued. “You still think the noctos should get half the crops produced, otherwise it is a moral injustice?”
Ricky stared at the ground. “I suppose I am saying that, yes. People need to eat. Not acknowledging the needs of anyone unable to provide for themselves reduces us to something less than human, in my opinion.” He looked back up. “But I don’t plan on ever being somebody on the receiving end of charity, personally.”
“Especially now that you’re one of us,” baseball cap said. “Right? Are you one of us now?”
“I don’t know.” Ricky glanced at the barracks. “I only know I am no longer sleeping on the day shift while I’m a prisoner at this place.”
Hawaiian shirt guy finally spoke. “Did you really just walk out of there and into the daylight for the first time?”
“That I did,” Ricky said. “I had extreme … motivation for doing so. But now that I’m out in the yard on this nice day, talking to you guys, I’m liking the daytime much better.”
“What about when you go home?”
Ricky scratched his ear. “I really don’t know. I’ve been living at the nocturnal house on the block.”
“Why is it you nocturnals all congregate together in the same house like that everywhere?” he asked.
“Yeah, how come?” baseball cap chimed.
“Well,” Ricky said looking at baseball cap, “you think you need protection from noctos, but the truth is noctos are just as scared of you. They—I mean we—band t
ogether for protection, and for a sense of security in being with people we understand.”
“They might not understand you so well now,” baseball cap replied grinning.
Preacher spoke. “Did you say you have a cooperative trading post between nocturnals and diurnals in your neighborhood?”
“Yep. We do. Proves it can be done.”
At that moment Ricky heard his voice called a short distance away. He turned from his conversation to see Tom waving and hurrying towards him.
“Excuse me guys,” Ricky said stepping out of the group.
Preacher muttered something to the others that included the words “nice kid.”
“I’m still happy,” Ricky said to Tom.
Tom rolled his eyes. “I can see that. Come with me. I got us an audience with the magistrate.”
“Wow! Thanks, Tom. I know you might’ve had to call in a favor.”
“Oh no I didn’t. They want to talk to you, kid. Believe me.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
The one sitting alone behind the tall desk was clearly in charge. His nameplate read Lieutenant Colonel Temple. In this room Ricky could tell he was the judge, jury, and quite possibly executioner.
The judge’s desk was positioned in the center of two lower tables. Seated at the one on his right were two other officers. Seated at the table to his left were two additional military personnel, but they didn’t look like typical officers to Ricky.
Tom sat with Ricky at a table on the floor, one level down and about twenty feet away, facing them all. Another table to their left remained vacant. A dozen empty chairs filled the room behind them.
Lieutenant Colonel Temple wore a perpetual scowl as he flipped through paperwork. The two officers on his right held blank stares and may have been daydreaming. But the two men to the judge’s left both studied Ricky with unrestrained intrigue.
The judge finally spoke.
“Your name is Ricky Danson. You were arrested for private property theft and brought in yesterday, at approximately this same time of day?”
Tom nudged Ricky to respond.
“Yes, that’s about right, your honor.”
“Please address me as ‘sir.’ It says here you requested your inmate classification as nocturnal. Is that correct?”
“Yes, your hon—yes sir.”
“Was that a mistake, son?”
“No, sir. Not at the time.”
The two men on the table to his left murmured to each other.
“Mr. Danson, how long have you been outside today?”
“A little over an hour, sir.”
“In the direct sunlight?”
“Yes.”
“Prior to today, when was the last time you went out in the sun?”
“Not since … two days after Helios, I believe.”
“And how much time have you spent outside at night since then?”
“Oh, every single night, sir. At least a few hours. Including all of last night.”
The lieutenant colonel raised his eyebrows at Tom.
“It’s true, sir,” Tom said. “All of it. Including his being outside today with no signs of anxiety.”
“I don’t exactly buy that, counselor. But in any case, it will be up to Dr. Morgan to determine whether the reclassification request is valid.” The lieutenant colonel turned to one of the men on his left, who nodded and stood up as if it were his cue. He looked like a stereotypical psychiatrist, with a groomed white beard.
“One more thing for the record,” the lieutenant colonel said turning back to Ricky. “I have been informed that you refused representation by counsel. Is that correct?”
Tom also turned to Ricky.
“No sir, that’s not,” Ricky replied. “I only wanted to change council to Tom.”
“I see.” He wrote something down. “All right, are there any questions before we adjourn?”
“No sir,” Tom answered.
But Ricky said, “Wait.” He tilted his head at Tom.
“Yes, Mr. Danson?” the lieutenant colonel asked. “What is it?”
Ricky turned forward. “Um … when do I get to present my defense?”
“At your tribunal, of course.”
“This isn’t it?”
“No.” The lieutenant colonel frowned at Tom. “This is merely a consideration of your reclassification request.”
Tom spoke. “His tribunal is currently scheduled on the nocturnal docket for tonight, sir. If I am to be his counsel, we’ll need it moved to a day slot. It might be convenient for all involved to simply do it now, given the petty nature of the charges. It’ll just be sentencing for taking a few eggs from a neighbor’s chicken coop, whom the defendant had established relations with—and even an agreement with not twelve hours prior.”
The lieutenant colonel flipped through the papers again. “Nothing in the report about the victim granting prior permission. How did he get such a fast court date scheduled?”
Ricky spoke. “I’m told it was because the officers here enjoyed the fresh catfish supper I provided them.”
This time the two officers to the right of the judge’s table came to life, chuckling. One even looked up to the lieutenant colonel and nodded.
The lieutenant colonel set his reports down. “Be that as it may, there is a protocol to follow. We first must determine whether or not to honor the prisoner reclassification request. That will depend on Dr. Morgan’s examination and advisement. There are a couple of ways this can go wrong. One is that the court finds the defendant to be in contempt for intentionally misrepresenting his nocturnal status, which will add a serious charge to his list. Another is that the doctor will decide to classify him as one of the anomalies commonly referred to as cathemerals, and move his place of incarceration to the mental health ward for further study.”
He then directed his vision straight at Ricky.
“Honestly, son, this is a pretty big gamble on your part. You only had a matter of hours to wait for your hearing on what looks like minor charges. If I were you, I would have stayed in the barracks today.”
* * *
“Just relax and tell me what your eyes see.” Dr. Morgan brought a cardboard poster out from behind his wooden desk. It was full of black and white squares, like a chessboard except the squares were not in a symmetrical pattern. Some areas were mostly black squares and others mostly white. It resembled an empty crossword puzzle frame somewhat.
“I don’t know,” Ricky replied, aware of the despondency in his voice.
“This is important, if you want anyone to believe you genuinely went from nocturnal to diurnal.”
“I don’t care who believes it,” Ricky said. “I just wanted to stay outside today.”
“For the first time.”
“Yes, for the first time.” Ricky straightened up. “All right. I think I see a picture of a cup. Yes, I see it now. A coffee cup.”
“Good,” the doctor said putting it away. He brought up another. “And this one?”
“Some kind of animal, like a horse or a zebra. I’ll go with zebra given the coloring.”
“The coloring isn’t important.” He switched to a new poster.
“An airplane.”
Dr. Morgan acted surprised by the answer. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, there’s a clear airplane shape, mostly in the white squares. What, you don’t see it, doctor? Or is messing with me part of the game?”
“It’s not a game, Ricky. And what I see is irrelevant.”
“I’ll bet,” Ricky responded. “I suppose all your schooling works as a shield for you, protecting you from ever being sent to a nuthouse yourself. Since you are the one with a learned higher insight, in a position of power as a result, you get to decide who is committed and who stays free.”
The doctor shook his head and picked up a pen to make a note. “Now you are starting to talk like—”
“Like one of those you imprisoned in the mental ward? The Cathy people?”
“Catheme
ral. We do have several residents there who conform to that classification, yes. But that was not what I was going to say. Let’s get back to the test. What do you see in this one?” He held up another poster.
“That’s the first one again. With the coffee cup.”
“Correct,” Dr. Morgan said. “But it’s also the third one. With the airplane.”
Ricky leaned forward and blinked. “Oh, there it is. Yes, I see the airplane again.”
“And the coffee cup, both?”
“No, just the airplane now.”
“Un-focus and try to see the coffee cup again.”
Ricky complied. “Okay, I can see it when I look at it differently."
“Can you see them both at the same time?”
“No,” Ricky answered. “Some of the same squares are included in either image. You can only see it as one or the other.”
“You mean you can only see it as one or the other.”
“Can you see them both at the same time?”
“No,” the doctor confessed. “I’m diurnal, so I can only see the airplane, as 100% of all diurnals tested can only see. But 100% of nocturnals tested can only see the coffee cup. Which makes your case highly interesting. Those we classify as cathemeral can see both at the same time. At least, when we can get them to cooperate with the test and not venture off into a sermon about how squares are used to build barriers in society and if modern architecture designed circular buildings instead it would solve half of humanity’s problems, or some such babble.”
Ricky laughed.
“I want to try a word association test now.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, Ricky. I don’t kid. We don’t actually do these much anymore, mostly because of the damaged public image from sitcoms poking fun at them, rendering them less effective. But in your case I think it may help me in my analysis. Just voice out loud the first word that pops in your head. Ready?”
“All right.” Rick sighed. “Fire away.”
“Day.”