Mindwarp

by James Follett

  Ewen’s smile faded. “Surely not? All I did was-”

  “You desecrated and sabotaged Centre equipment!” Kally suddenly flared. “You launched a direct attack on the GoD! That’s what they’re saying!”

  Ewen stood and stared out of the window so that Kally could not see his change of expression. The detention centre was in the middle of an old industrial estate that was in the process of being demolished. There was an acrid taste of building dust in the air, and the inside of the dome was coated in a thick layer of grime.

  “What else, mother?”

  “There’s nothing else.”

  He spun around to face her. “What else?”

  Kally stared down at the floor. “There was an interview with the head of your faculty.”

  “Dom Aster Tarant?”

  She nodded. “Yes, that was his name.”

  Ewen was surprised. Technicians usually shunned publicity. But Tarant was ambitious; it was widely known that he wanted to be deputy vice-chancellor. Holders of the post were noted for their tough stance on religious issues. “What about him?”

  “He said…” Her voice trembled. “He said that he would be pressing the prosecution to demand the maximum penalty on the desecration charge. That you should be hanged.”

  The moment he was alone, Ewen pulled a face at the emperor and went back to scraping the paint from the cell wall by his bunk. He lay on his side so that the scratching of his fingernail would not be seen by the GoD receptor. The fly crawled down the wall as though interested in what he was doing. The paint had been badly applied and flaked away easily. The inscription was faded and illegible. But by carefully removing the paint a little at a time, he was able to decipher the name of its author:

  SIMO BELAN.

  Bel was waiting in the back seat of the auto-taxi. Kally slipped in beside him and sat staring through the front windscreen at the bleak building that was holding Ewen. Her dark waves of hair obscured her face. He knew when it was best to remain silent. A sentence of death was hanging over both her sons.

  “He doesn’t seem to realise the trouble he’s in,” she said in a low voice.

  “Is there anything we can do?” Bel asked. “Money for defence? Anything like that?”

  “No. Everything has to be handled by the Centre. It’s an internal matter.”

  An auto-taxi drew up behind them and latched onto a charging point. A tall, angular blonde wearing a tight, one-piece technicians’ uniform got out. She brushed passed the vehicle that Kally and Bel were sitting in, and crossed to the detention centre’s forbidding front entrance.

  “Jenine,” said Kally in answer to Bel’s inquiry. “I’ve seen her at the visiting centre. She shares a study apartment with him.”

  Bel had never been so close to a female technician before. “She looks odd,” he commented.

  “In what way?”

  “She has to be the most flat-chested girl I’ve ever seen. Are they all like that?”

  “Ewen doesn’t have to shave,” said Kally absently. “That’s why they’re selected - because they’re different.” She wondered if she should tell him that she had nearly been selected to be technician, but what was the point? It was all so long ago and her memories of that day were unclear.

  Bel touched the control pad and the auto taxi hissed out of its recharging and parking slot.

  11.

  That night, after lights out, Ewen pulled the blankets over his head and slipped his hand under the mattress. His fingers closed around the radio capsule that Father Dadley had given him.

  “If you’re ever in serious trouble, Ewen. Big trouble. Squeeze the ends together hard and someone will hear.”

  He had been allowed to visit the toilet before being taken to the detention centre and had used the opportunity to hide the capsule with the aid of some soap. Fortunately, the search on arrival was desultory; its effectiveness depended merely on taking his clothes away and issuing him with prison garb.

  He pressed the ends of capsule with his thumb and forefinger. Nothing seemed to happen. He used the heels of his palms and heard a faint click. He held the device to his ear and listened. There was a faint hum of a carrier wave but nothing else. If the device was a radio transceiver, he wondered what frequency it operated on and how well the signals were digitally scrambled. And then a faint, reedy voice:

  “Hallo, Ewen.”

  Ewen had no idea which end of the gadget concealed the microphone. He held the capsule close to his lips and whispered a guarded hello.

  “Let matters take their course,” said the voice before he had a chance to say anything else. It was so faint that he had to press the capsule hard against his ear to hear what was being said. “We are aware of your situation. Let matters take their course.”

  The message was repeated three times with no variation in the speaker’s voice. A recording?

  There was the softest of clicks and the carrier went dead.

  Ewen thought about the extreme discomfort he had endured to hide the capsule and wondered if it had been worth it.

  Eventually he fell asleep and was woken at first light by the fly buzzing around the cell. He watched it with interest, wondering at its remarkable source of energy that enabled it to remain airborne. No-one ever studied the few flies that entered Arama. The law of the GoD was that they were abominations and should always be killed.

  The creature settled on his hand. Ewen fought against a lifetime’s conditioning and kept his hand perfectly still. The fly’s legs tickled as it explored its landing site.

  “Where do you come from, fly?”

  The insect cleaned its wings with its rear legs.

  “Do you really come from hell or was Simo Belan right in thinking that you come from the outdoors?”

  Ewen glanced at the GoD receptor. What did it matter if they thought him mad?

  “What’s the outdoors like, fly?” He was about to add: “Is it blue?” but checked himself.

  The fly took off and resumed its inane circling of the cell.

  12.

  It had been nearly 100-years since the last convening of the imperial court therefore records had been consulted as to layout and procedure. Everything was much the same as for a normal court with the exception of an imposing central throne for the emperor or his first secretary as president of the court. An extra-large picture of the emperor had been fixed to the wall.

  Ewen sat in the well of the court at an empty desk while the court chairman and his four advisors, seated at a long desk below the throne, checked with the clerk that the president did not have to be present before proceedings could get underway.

  Chief Technician Dom Aster Tarant fidgeted impatiently. It was improper that someone of his status had to share a hard witness bench with his minions. Also the court had been convened in a lecture hall in the GoD Centre’s Waste Management faculty, which didn’t please him, and the chairman of the court was his old enemy, the head of information, which pleased him even less. Nevertheless, he was confident of the outcome of this trial. None of the legally competent lecturers in the Centre had come forward to defend the accused because there was a chance that Tarant would soon be deputy vice-chancellor. One rank below Caudo Inman and highest office a citizen of Arama could aspire to. It was a promotion that Dom Aster Tarant craved.

  Ewen’s medallion gleamed on its pedestal on the presidential desk. One thing was for sure, thought Tarant, the wretched student wouldn’t be wearing that again.

  An usher herded the ten members of public into the courtroom. Tarant had objected on the grounds that the trial was an internal affair, but the admission of the public was mandatory. They were a motley collection who looked uneasily about them at the numbers of GoD medallions that twinkled in the lights. The exception was a senile old man who mumbled to himself and seemed surprised to find himself in a courtroom.

  Ewen watched them settling in their seats, thankful that his mother and stepfather, and Jenine weren’t among them. Jenine had wanted to atten
d, but, knowing how she hated being kept indoors for long periods, he had insisted on her staying away.

  The clerk brought the court to order and started to read out the charges against the accused. Uncertain of the correct protocol, Ewen put his hand up.

  “Shouldn’t I have someone to defend me?”

  Text books were poured over, datapads consulted. It seemed a valid procedural point so the court was adjourned until the next day.

  Deg Calen, suave and debonair as always, breezed into the students’ rest room that served as a court cell. “Hallo, old man. Your troubles are over. I’m your defending counsel.” He hefted a steel toolbox that served as his briefcase onto the desk, and grinned amiably at Ewen’s shocked expression. “Sorry I’m late. Spent the night going through depositions and statements. You’re in a bit of a mess, old chap, but I expect you’ve already worked that out.”

  Ewen gaped in alarm at his fellow student. “You! You’re not a lawyer!”

  Calen looked hurt. “I come from an old and distinguished family of lawyers.”

  “You’re a technician-student. And a bad one at that.”

  “You have a right to be defended by your peers.”

  “I thought it was a right to be tried by one’s peers?”

  A frown creased Calen’s elegant forehead. “You could be right. I’m a bit rusty on the old legal mumbo-jumbo.”

  “A bit rusty!” Ewen wailed. “Legal mumbo-jumbo! What’s going to happen to me!”

  Calen considered. “Desecration is the worst charge. An automatic hanging offence I think, but I’ll check up if you think it’s important. I suppose an impassioned plea in mitigation might result in a verbal reprimand, but I’m not hopeful.”

  13.

  Chief Technician Dom Aster Tarant was seething and sweating. It was monstrous: a pipsqueak 10th year student was giving him a roasting! Nor was this the trial proper - merely the first stage to determine whether or not there were charges to answer. Worse - the chairman of the court was secretly laughing at him.

  “So you didn’t bother read the instructions on the control panel even though they’re printed on a sign in bold red lettering?” Calen inquired mildly.

  “My immediate concern was to do something about the damned lights!” The defendent, sitting at the desk beside Calen, appeared to be smirking, adding to Tarant’s anger.

  “But neither you or your colleagues bothered to read the instructions before playing around with the main switch?” Calen persisted.

  “We don’t like the phrase “playing around”,” the chairman warned.

  Calen bowed and returned to the attack. “So… You didn’t read the warning sign before messing about with the main switch?”

  “No!”

  “I’ll read it then,” said Calen. “I have a copy.” He gave one of his pauses for dramatic effect that had earned the admiration of everyone except the witness, and recited in clear voice the warning that operating the main switch with full GoD power connected to the zargon lights would result in catastrophic failure of the tubes unless the manual regulators were used.

  Calen paused as though waiting for divine guidance. “We’ve already heard that the introduction of phosgene gas would not have harmed the lights, and that its effect would have decayed by noon had the lights been left alone, therefore the damage was due to your negligence, and not the actions of my client.” He turned to the bench and requested that Charge Two, the sabotage indictment, be dismissed.

  The prosecuting counsel protested. The chairman and his panel considered and agreed with Calen.

  The next charge to fall was that of forcible entry. Calen argued that there was no evidence of forcible entry to the battery room by Ewen. What signs of forcible entry there were had been caused by the witness and his colleagues. Over a 100 students had seen the witness use a laser cutter on the door.

  “But he used adhesive around the door to prevent it being opened!” Tarant objected.

  A pause as a smile spread across Calen’s face. “Ah… But that’s forcible exit, and that’s not the charge.”

  One of the chairman’s colleagues hid his face behind a handkerchief to stifle what might have been a fit of coughing.

  The charge of misuse of the lights fell by the wayside on a technicality because Calen’s eloquent line of reasoning was that the lights weren’t providing illumination, their sole function, at the time of the alleged offence, therefore they could not be considered to have been misused. His convoluted logic led to some wrangling, but he got his way.

  Next to go was theft of the phosgene gas from the laboratory complex, the second place where Ewen had left an incriminating fingerprint. Calen’s point was that the gas had not been stolen: merely transferred from one Centre application to another. The offence was unauthorized use of the gas, but that was a separate charge.

  After a brief adjournment, the bench agreed.

  Ewen’s spirits lifted. They didn’t actually soar because there were still several charges in need of verbal demolition, including the worst: Charge 1 - desecration. Nevertheless, Deg Calen sank his surprisingly capable legal teeth into it with all the enthusiasm of a novice tattooist presented with a willing, unblemished naked body.

  “Desecration,” he said, consulting a datapad. “The law is clear: the wilful destruction or defacing, either temporarily or permanently, of any article, work or thing that commemorates or celebrates or depicts or represents the works and word of the Guardian of Destiny or uses the works of the GoD to perform its function.” He paused and glanced at the public gallery before continuing. “Well there’s no doubt that the zargon gas tubes are powered by the GoD force. But…” Another pause for dramatic effect. “The court has already decided that the destruction of the zargon tubes was due to the negligence of Chief Technician Dom Aster Tarant, and was not as a result of my client’s action.”

  This was too much for Tarant. He was yelling at Calen before the prosecuting counsel had a chance to open his mouth. “It was defacing! He turned the lights blue! Everything in the campus was turned a disgusting bright blue! What’s that if it’s not defacing!”

  The clerk restored order. There followed a tussle between Calen and the prosecuting counsel that ended with a ruling from the bench:

  “We’ve agreed that the destruction element of the charge should be set aside,” said the chairman. “But defacing must go forward. Please continue.”

  Ewen’s spirits sank when he recalled the brilliant blue glow that had suffused the entire campus. Although stunned by Calen’s amazing performance, it was obvious that there was little hope of his fellow student talking down the charge.

  Calen’s elegant figure rose. For a moment he seemed to be distracted by the mumbling of the old man on the public bench.

  “Let us consider what my client did to turn the campus lights from white to blue. He mixed a tiny amount of phosgene gas with the zargon gas. How did he know what the effect would be? His education, of course - the wonderful word of the GoD that has been passed to him in this Centre by his tutors.” He paused and spoke to the clerk. “Would you circulate Document 6B please.”

  Copies of an imposing-looking, close-printed document that bore the great seal of the Revelation Centre were passed reverently around the court. Such documents were the source of all knowledge.

  “That,” said Calen, injecting a suitably awed tone into his voice, “is Revelation 604. Revealed to us by the Guardian of Destiny over 200 years ago. It describes in great detail the interactions of many gases, including zargon gas and phosgene gas. Paragraph 14A details the percentages of zargon and phosgene that are required to achieve blue light in varying degrees. These holy formulae are used to this day in industrial applications where intense blue light is required. Therefore there is no doubt that such light, which the chief technician referred as “disgusting”, is the work of the GoD.” Another pause.

  The prosecuting counsel half rose, and changed his mind. He had an uncomfortable idea where Calen’s line of
reasoning was leading.

  “So the phenomenon my client employed,” Calen continued, “was not the callous wielding of an axe, or the mindless splashing of a paintbrush - deeds which the law rightly condemns. He used the word of the Guardian of Destiny to achieve the effect!”

  Yet another pause followed by a subtle change of tone.

  “Like many of you here today, I witnessed the event of that remarkable dawn. And as that wonderful blue light filled the air with its beauty and awesome majesty, I recall thinking to myself that here was the true glory of the Guardian of Destiny being revealed to us all. A stunning reminder of the omnipotent powers that have been entrusted to us and which we so often take for granted. On that morning, members of the bench, my faith in the GoD underwent a profound reaffirmation that will accompany me to my grave… And then…”

  The courtroom hung onto his every word.

  “…as we revelled in the glory of that wondrous light, there came a sudden and unspeakable darkness brought about by the mindless tampering of the chief technician. It was utter darkness… The darkness of the profane forces of Diablo… The darkness that shrouds the spirits of those who reject the Guardian of Destiny… The darkness of despair and the outdoors. That darkness, members of the bench, was the only desecration perpetrated that morning, and it was brought about, not by my client, but by the ill-considered actions of Chief Technician Dom Aster Tarant… Thank you.” He sat down to a thunderous silence.

  For the moment Ewen forgot his predicament, such was his admiration for Calen’s oratory. Not so much for the flight of heady purple prose, but because it came from someone who, on the morning of the blue dawn, had declared that it made him feel as sick as a seized-up travelator.

  The chairman announced a short recess. When the court reconvened, he read out a brief statement saying that the charge of desecration could not stand.

  Tarant stared aghast at his copy of the indictment sheet as though a picture of a bird had appeared on it. There was only one charge left. He jumped to his feet to add his vehement protests to the sudden babble of conversation that had broken out.