“Attendees!” Marcus only needs one word to silence the room. “I’d like to continue by honoring a request from the Sectorate.” He pauses to let his words sink in. My thoughts tumble around in my head, flapping their wings like trapped birds inside a cage. Any kind of comment from the Sectorate to the Tribunal is rare. Normally speaking, the Sectorate stays out of jurisdiction. The Tribunal seems independent, but it isn’t, not really. Nothing is. The Sectorate has a finger in every pie, big or small.
Unwittingly, I grab Ernst’s arm. I still feel like I’m spinning and I need an anchor point. Ernst puts his hand on mine, and the gesture is so familiar that it calms me, making me feel like I’m standing on my own two feet again.
Marcus clears his throat and goes on. “The murder of Sectoral Irina Custes has severely damaged the legal order of our Sector. Irina’s family has decided to leave the Sector in order to rebuild their lives in one of the Subsectors, because memories of their only daughter’s life and eventual death were causing them too much pain. And this cowardly murder hasn’t just affected the immediate family – it has also shocked all other Sectorals. It’s been years since a Stateless managed to breach the gates of our Sector. It’s even longer ago that a Sectoral fell prey to such a person’s ruthless actions. All of this combined has prompted the Sectorate to intervene.” Again, Marcus pauses. He then addresses Aron, who can do nothing but look up at Marcus expectantly.
“The Sectorate has decided that this Tribunal is over. Sectoral Nata’s testimony is all the evidence we need. The Tributants will decide on the verdict of this case based on this eyewitness account and the aforementioned pieces of evidence today.”
Today.
The Sectorate has put a time limit on our decision. Ernst is still holding my hand, an affectionate gesture for which I’m thankful. We wait until the room empties and a guard shows up to accompany us to a small office in the back of the Courthouse. This is where we have to come to a formal conclusion. I look at Ernst, then Myrthe, and I know this: we have already made our judgment.
14
“OKAY. Now what? How are we going to go about this?” Ernst plunks down on the couch in the office. Myrthe and I are still on our feet and glance at each other awkwardly before Myrthe walks over to sit down next to Ernst. I pick the wooden chair behind the desk. The computer monitor separates me from the other two Tributants.
“Formally, we have to vote. And draw up a report. Justa, would you mind taking notes? You’re sitting at the computer anyway.” Ernst stretches his legs.
I see the PC is already switched on and I press Enter. The monitor comes alive and I open a new document. By now, I know the Tribunal number on my wrist by heart, so I don’t need to check. It’s the first thing I type on the empty page. Underneath, I type our names as well as the suspect’s name, Aron.
“You need any help?” Ernst gets up and pulls Myrthe along. “If not, I think Myrthe and I will go down to the cafeteria to grab a bite. I’m starving.” He winks at Myrthe and she giggles. This is the first time I notice the palpable tension between them. Indecisively, I look from Ernst to Myrthe, my gaze landing on her hand draped over his lower arm.
“Hello? Justa? You want us to get you anything?” Ernst sounds impatient. When I think of food, I feel sick to my stomach, so I shake my head.
“I’ll bring you some yoghurt or something. You do need to eat something, Justa.” Like he’s talking to a child. Ernst nods, indicating he’s made the decision to feed me all by himself. He’s on a one-way street and I don’t get to say anything. I suppress the urge to stomp my foot on the floor and yell at him that I DON’T! WANT! FOOD! Which would be a suitable child-like reaction in this case.
I keep my mouth shut and watch the retreating backs of Myrthe and Ernst as they leave the room.
REPORT
The cursor blinks back at me, positioned behind the last T. I keep watching the little stripe phasing in and out of existence. It’s what I want to do – disappear. Or reappear. I want I want I want I want but there’s nothing I can want because everything has been decided for me.
A sigh escapes my lips and I press my back into the hard seat of my chair, rubbing my clammy hands on my pants, and that’s when my palms hit something hidden in there. With nimble fingers, I pry the USB stick out of my pocket. I stare at it. Turn the plastic stick around. Take off the cap and plug the silver-colored end into the computer.
And I wait.
A movie starts. At first, I can’t see anything. After a few minutes I’m ready to yank it back out, cursing myself for my gullibility – of course there’s nothing to see, Aron is a murderer and a liar and there’s nothing I can want anyway, I don’t want anything – when suddenly, the screen flickers to life. I see a room. I recognize it.
The furniture in this room these days is different. Not the warm tones of dark wood and deep purple carpet, replaced long ago by the cool, gray tint of tiles. It’s my dad’s study.
And then I hear his voice and my world crumbles.
Dad.
I lose myself in the sadness, in waves of barely-there memories. Images I can’t quite recall because I was still so little when he died, but have taught myself to recollect from photos I own and recordings I’ve listened to. His voice. His face, reflecting some of my own features back to me, or my face reflecting his. The house decorated as it was before Marcus and Ernst moved there.
“I don’t need to listen to this. It is what it is. Tomorrow I’ll send the proposal to the Sectorate so we can leave this whole unwholesome business behind us once and for all. We’re better than this, that’s why it has to happen this way.’
I can’t see who my father is talking to; the man is just out of view. He must be there, though, because my dad turns around to face the darkness on screen and puts his hands in his sides.
“Really? Threats won’t get you anywhere. Catharsis is inhumane and your argument that we’re dealing with Stateless beasts won’t hold up. They are like us and so they should be treated the same way. Segregation is nothing but a fairytale, a lie we tell ourselves to make things easier. Trust me, the real monsters are not outside those gates. Enough of them live among us. You know that as well as I do.”
I lean forward, my fingertips touching the image of my father on the screen. A jumble of emotions flows through my veins and replaces my blood with a wave of lingering questions, longing, confusion.
And then, the flow stops completely.
Because the man talking to my father steps in front of the camera. My dad backs away, but not far enough. The knife plunges into his chest so quickly. With an incredulous look in his eyes he stares up at me, a thin rivulet of blood running from his mouth down to his chin. And then he slumps to the floor. It’s all so fast and so excruciatingly slow at once, and I stare at the horrifying images with clenched fists. I gape at them like a spectator, and a witness, and a victim.
Marcus crouches down and leans over my father’s dead body. To have a look at the man he just stabbed to death. I know what will happen next, because I know the police reports and media releases about this night by heart. The perpetrator murdered my dad in his own study, and then went on to kill my mom in their bedroom. But now I know that the stories painting my version of reality for so many years are all based on lies and half-truths. It wasn’t some Stateless man who killed my parents. It was their friend. The man they named the legal guardian of their only child in their will, should anything ever happen to them.
15
LONG before Myrthe and Ernst return to the office, holding hands and not even trying to hide their feelings for each other, I’ve removed the USB stick from the computer and got everything straight in my mind. I’m calm, I don’t feel panic, no sadness. I don’t feel anything.
No. There is one emotion that envelops me, embracing me with warmth, showering me with love, caressing me with its hot breath.
Hate.
&
nbsp; At first, I didn’t recognize the feeling. When I grew up believing that my parents had been killed by the Stateless, I thought I’d hated them – the animals who had taken my mom and dad away from me. I thought I’d be able to hurt them back if I knew who they were. That I wouldn’t fear the beasts, the monsters who’d been haunting my dreams for so long.
But that feeling is nothing compared to the hatred that’s pumping through my veins right now, flowing through my beating heart of black.
“You haven’t made any progress?” Ernst is standing behind me. I turn around to look at him and catch him staring disbelievingly at the still empty document.
“I’d like to speak with the suspect one last time.”
“What?” He towers over me so I get up to not feel so small compared to him, so he’ll no longer look down on me. I can’t muster up the energy to be polite or keep up appearances. To play along with their games.
“You heard me,” I snap at him, pushing him aside when he blocks my way. I pass a baffled Myrthe and stomp out of the office.
My legs carry me criss-cross through the Arbiter House and down the steps into the cellars. The holding cells are below ground. I know where to go thanks to the obligatory tour I did last year. Bartholomew seemed to want to halt at every brick in the wall. So boring. Irina and I had been all the way in the back and we’d laughed about things I have long since forgotten. In this moment, I wish I’d have been able to hold on to those moments, capture them for later, so I could relive them with her one last time.
“This area is off-limits to civilians.” The guard crosses his arms in front of his impressive belly.
Hate. It urges me forward. I push against his shoulder, but of course he doesn’t budge.
“I need to speak to the suspect. We have one last leniency proposal for him.” The guard looks at me nonplussed. “An offer. If he pleads guilty his punishment will be less severe. Marcus sent me.” I’m surprised I don’t choke on the name which is like poison on my tongue, that the sound doesn’t blister my mouth and cracks my lips when I speak it.
“The Arbiter?”
The murderer. I press my lips into a line, afraid I’ll say the words out loud.
For a split second, the guard hesitates before his hand moves to the keychain and key card dangling from his belt. “Come on then. He’s in cell number five.”
I trail behind him and try to stay calm when all I want is to rush him, force him to go faster, click my tongue or heave a sigh of impatience, anything to make him speed up a bit.
At last, we arrive at a cell with a big V above the door. The guard fumbles with the keys and holds up his pass to get it scanned by an electronic sensor mounted on the doorjamb. The door clicks open.
“You have a visitor,” he grunts, stepping aside so I can pass him. I enter the cell. My eyes need a moment to adjust to the darkness. I don’t see him – I don’t see Aron. For a moment, I’m afraid I’m in the wrong cell, that the guard has made a mistake. Or even worse, that he knows what I’m up to and that he’s locking me up in here before he fetches Marcus.
Then I see him.
Aron is curled up in a corner, his knees pulled up against his chest, his arms circling his knees. The sling is gone. He raises his head and stares at me before he gets up and presses his back against the wall. As though he’s afraid of me. For all I know, he is. And he has every right to. He’s probably still feeling the pain inflicted on him because of our previous meeting. What’s more, I’m the one deciding whether he lives or dies. His life or death is in my hands.
If he’s got any sense left at all, he should be afraid of me.
I choke on the words I want to say to him, on the truth I need to tell him. Suddenly, it hits me like a torrential rain. Only then do I notice the tears running down my cheeks, do I feel myself crying and gasping for breath.
Aron says nothing and waits.
Finally I calm down enough to speak. I know I’ve wasted valuable time. How long will they allow me to be in his cell? How long before the guard starts to suspect Marcus didn’t send me? That’s there’s no deal at all?
I force my one leg in front of the other and approach Aron. When I come closer, I see it isn’t fear that’s driven him into a corner. It’s because he’s shaking, trembling on his legs and seeking support against the wall. His eyes are glazed over with fever and when I put my hand on his cheek, I can feel how clammy his skin is.
“You’re sick.”
He doesn’t respond at first, but then he nods. “Infected wound. Not that it matters.” A hint of a grin creeps onto his face. “It’s not like I have a long and healthy life ahead of me.”
I shiver like I am the one running a fever.
“I know what’s on it. On the data stick. Why did Irina give it to you?”
Aron sighs and closes his eyes for a second. “It’s complicated. There are people in the Freeland who need the info.”
“The… Freeland?”
“The world outside the Sector.”
The world outside the Sector. The wilderness. Where the wild people live, the Stateless. I never realized that it had a name, this land. That there might be a civilization besides ours. Freeland. It sounds – full of hope.
“What do they need the information for? You don’t even know what’s on that stick. Why did you agree to get it for them? Risk your life? Break the rules?”
Aron looks at me. “Is breaking the rules worse than risking your life?”
I shake my head, not quite getting what he means at first. Then it hits me – the way I phrased it. Yes, I suddenly realize. In the Sector, it actually is worse to break the rules than to risk your life. Rules keep our society together. Keep our civilization sane. Civilization... that sounds wrong after everything I’ve seen. Marcus killed my father. And he lied to me for years. Is that civilized?
“The Antibellum isn’t an association you argue with. If they ask you to do something, you don’t say no.”
It occurs to me that he doesn’t even want to know what’s on the data stick. Or how it is that I do know what’s on it. Maybe it’s safer to know as little as possible? I wish I’d never seen those images. No, I correct myself. It hurts – it hurts like hell and knocked me off my feet, but I’m grateful for knowing the truth about my dad’s murderer.
“I’m going to help you to get out of here.”
16
“JUSTA. It’s...” Bartho plucks a pocket watch from the inner pocket of his dressing gown. “Late, let’s leave it at that.” He puts the antique watch back where it belongs and beckons me in. With faltering step I follow him down the hallway. We end up in a small living room and I think we’ve reached our destination, but Bartho keeps going. He opens another door, goes down yet another corridor and leads us to what must be his study. Piles and piles of paper are stacked up throughout the small space. I try to see an order to the chaos, but fail. Bartho passes me and moves a stack of binders to reveal the seat of a stool underneath. He nods at it to indicate I should sit down on it. He chooses to remain standing himself.
“I don’t know who I should turn to for help.” The words are a mere sigh as I sag down on the stool. I’ve considered telling Ernst, but I know how tough it is to grow up without a father. If I tell him what Marcus has done, I’ll cause Ernst the same pain as Marcus caused me. I can’t do that to him – I love him like my own brother. And to be honest, I was too scared to. Paranoia struck when I pondered who else is in on the conspiracy, as I’ve come to call it. Severis? Most likely. Severis and Marcus have been friends all my life. Actually, Marcus is friends with all the important people in the Sectorate. The only high-ranking Sectoral whom Marcus doesn’t count among his closest friends is presently staring down at me, his eyes solemn.
“No one.”
I’m not sure I heard him right. What does he mean? Is that some kind of answer to my question? I don’t get it. I op
en my mouth, then close it again, feeling like a fish on dry land gasping for breath. Dying.
“Justa, no one can help you. Not just one person.” Bartho leans forward and his face hovers close to mine. I see his eyes are gray. Not blue. Different from us. And I never noticed. Then again, I’ve never seen him from this up close before. I stifle the urge to shift back on my stool and keep my eyes locked on his face. If I see his lips move while he speaks, maybe the meaning of his words will become less obscure. Maybe it’ll teach me what he wants to tell me.
Or maybe coming here was the wrong decision after all. Doubt snaps its jaws at me like a dog eating away my confidence bit by bit.
“Why are you here, Justa?”
Those are words I understand. Words that tell me what to do. I extend my hand and open my fist. Bartho looks at the data stick and suddenly it makes me remember why I’m here. I know why and I know what to do. And so I tell him. I tell him everything. I start near the end. How I sat down at my desk to study after dinner, how I kissed Marcus goodnight before I went to bed. How I felt like such a Judas when my lips touched his cheek, and how I had to throw up in the toilet bowl afterward. How I pretended to be asleep while my inner turmoil wouldn’t die down. How I tiptoed downstairs after I was sure Marcus and Ernst had fallen asleep, how I slipped out the front door. I keep talking until I end up at the beginning, the thing that started it all.
“The Sectorate is rotten at the core.”
In the meantime, we’ve sought refuge in the kitchen, both with a mug of steaming tea in front of us. After Bartho had watched the movie clip, he thought we could both use a hot drink.
I watch my hands, spread out on the table, next to my mug. I watch the steam of the hot water rise, like ghostly shapes emerging from the earthenware. I feel as transparent as the vapor.
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