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Reprieve
by John T. Cullen
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Science Fiction
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Clocktower Books
www.clocktowerbooks.com
Copyright ©2002 John T. Cullen
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
* * *
The Advocate peered through a slot in the battered steel door and wondered: What is she?
A small woman huddled on a metal bench in a cell whose floor gleamed dully from many washings. A sickening aseptic smell hinted at the morning's cleaning—never quite enough to kill the fetor of old blood in the drains.
The Advocate walked across the echoing corridor to his office. He lit a cigarette and looked through the window at a patch of skyline. Rain trickled down the greasy glass.
Outside, beyond the collection of cubes comprising the Inquiry, stood the Lord's City. The outlines of the immense gray pyramids comprising its defensive perimeter were blurred with corrosive precipitation.
A distant explosion, felt rather than heard, shivered the floor underfoot. Sometimes there were several blasts an hour, but one never got used to them. Each one terrified, each one reminded of the horrendous fate if the infidels broke through the gates.
The Advocate sighed and turned back to his desk. He was a man in his fifties: portly, graying, with a deeply lined face. Smoke twirled forgotten about his head.
On the desk was a comlink with several buttons. He pushed one.
“Have the Questioner stand by. Better yet, have him come now, with his tools. Usually just the sight of them is enough to make these apostates talk."
“Aye, sir."
He felt a whiff of challenge as he smoothed down his white starched coat with the caduceus emblem on the breast pocket. In pre-Scriptural days, he knew, he would have been known as a psychiatrist. But his training would have been secular and blasphemous. How backward people had been then. But they had not had to live under perpetual siege like this. He, the Advocate, must choose certain prisoners to investigate: what was the enemy doing on the outside? With what sorts of demons did they consort in their false readings of the Book?
Was the woman in cell D-34 a demon? Or was she a messenger from God? During the ten minutes he had watched her she had remained motionless. Nor had she paid the least attention to her cellmates, several gray shapes huddled in distant corners. She wore the faded blue gown they'd given in replacement for her military uniform, which had been of a type never before seen here, with an amazingly compact and effective self-sufficient breathing apparatus. She sat with her hands on her knees, staring down.
Aloof. Untouched.
In shock, perhaps, the Advocate thought.
He considered reciting the Scripture verses for depression, but decided to wait. Against the unknown, observe rather than act.
“Sir."
He turned to the comlink. “Yes?"
“The Questioner is here."
“Send him up."
Shortly the door opened, and a massive figure encased in a thick black rubber suit entered. The Questioner wore a brass helmet like a diving bell, with two tiny black glass eye pieces set close together. In one hand he carried a bucket full of cutting instruments. In his other he carried a bundle of long rods for insertion, some with hooks on their ends. Electrical cords were draped around one shoulder.
The Questioner stepped close and inclined his head.
The Advocate indicated the security monitor, set now on D34. “The one on the bunk,” he said. “Just scare her a bit to start."
They went to the cell. The Advocate opened the door and the two men walked up to the silent woman. The Advocate said: “Protect your soul, woman, and break this abominable silence."
The Questioner's electrically proofed rubber boots squeaked on the pitted concrete floor as he moved forward. The objects in his bucket rattled. The other women moaned. One began weeping.
The odd female didn't bother to look up. The Questioner turned to the Advocate and shrugged. He set his gear down with a clatter, then unwound the half inch thick electrical cords and plugged them into ceiling sockets.
He nodded to the Advocate to leave, which the rules required, and turned on a faucet. Water poured out onto the floor, running to the drain.
As the Advocate turned to go he glimpsed the swing of the cords and heard the bark of a short as copper touched water. He smelled brimstone. The flashes were of an infernal color, blue and white, crackling like teeth in flesh. The other women wailed.
A half hour later, the Questioner stood in the doorway, helmet in hand. He was a tall man with a round head, nearly bald. He used a pudgy wrist to wipe sweat from his forehead. “She's yours."
“Progress?"
The Questioner shook his head. “I've never seen anyone like her."
“Did you scare her?"
“The others fell apart watching. About that woman, I don't know. I went to the limit with what you ordered. Go see."
They went together and looked at the crumpled figure sprawled on the floor, her shift hiked up around bare thighs the color of yellow wax, with violent blue-black burn marks on them. Her face lay near the drain, eyes closed. A tree of diluted blood grew out of her open mouth, its branches meandering toward the drain.
* * * *
The Advocate returned to his office. Oily rain still trickled down the windows. He noted absently that a clump of airborne contaminant had lodged in the corner of the frame. Its digestive fluids had begun to etch the glass. He called Sanitation to have it removed. But his mind was on her.
He was the Advocate. It was his job to find any prisoner deserving of a reprieve. In 20 years, he'd never found one. Could she be the first? Was her survival of the gas chamber yesterday a sign from God? Or was she a test of his moral strength, sent by the Devil? He lit a cigarette, sweating now; if he were proven wrong, he himself might end up in the same gas chamber.
Again he went over the report. The woman had been captured in an outlying suburb near the city's defensive network. She claimed to be looking for her mate, who had vanished in the area two months previously.
Her mate? The Advocate frowned and called the police inspector by comline.
There was some delay while someone accessedthe records.
The inspector said: “A man was captured in that area several weeks ago. Serious breach, but we caught it just in time. I'm afraid he was—injured in the confrontation."
“Injured."
“Yes, that's right. Killed, I regret to say.” He didn't sound particularly regretful.
“I see. Was there anything at all ... odd about him?"
“Well, no, I don't think—actually, pardon me, I see here that he wore a strange atmosphere suit. We think he parachuted in from a sub-orbital craft."
“Where is his body?"
“Burned, of course, sir."
“And the suit?"
“It was confiscated by sanitation. When they attempted to examine it it self-destructed."
The Advocate stroked his jaw. “I see. Thank you."
* * * *
The com beeped. The Advocate looked up from his paperwork. “Yes?"
“This is Clinical. These X-rays ... We've never seen anything like this."
“Bring them."
A young medic delivered the prints and stood by, pointing out abnormalities, as the Advocate examined them.
�
��These flanges on the ribs,” he said. “And here ... this shadow is an organ, but we don't know what it's for. Best guess is a second liver."
The Advocate frowned at the x-ray. “We've seen many genetic problems among these people,” he said. “Quite a number of them exhibit one sort of deformation or another."
The medic shook his head. “She doesn't test out that way. There's no trace of disease. She's perfectly normal—for what she is."
“You're saying she is a mutant? Or a demon?"
The medic shrugged. “Sir, we are educated men. Demons are doctrine, yes, but...” He shrugged again. “As to mutancy, well ... Conditions being what they are out there we can expect a certain amount of adaptation to be occurring. A second liver could help filter the excess environmental toxins. I'm surprised we haven't seen this sooner."
After the medic left, the Advocate called up Inquiry police. “I want every one of the woman's cell mates set aside for questioning!"
The lieutenant on duty had a slow, infuriating voice. “They have all been gassed, Sir."
The Advocate gritted his teeth. “You people are—most efficient."
“Our duty to the Lord, Sir."
“Of course.” Why couldn't you be as stupid as you sound, he thought after ringing off. We are half again too clever for our own good.
As if in answer, two dull quivers rocked the building in rapid succession, like a single giant heartbeat. The Advocate's stomach felt queasy as he opened Scripture to look for verses suggesting this prisoner had signs deserving a reprieve.
* * * *
Some time later, like a somnambulist, he stood musing in front of D-34. He realized that he had begun to hate her for her imperturbability. As though she could have a faith stronger than his! But that, he knew, would not affect his attention to duty.
She still sat mutely on the bunk, alone now that her cellmates had been processed. After reviewing the security videos, he saw that she had not moved all night. If she slept she did it sitting, with her eyes open. He sighed.
From behind him came the sound of a throat being cleared. He turned but saw no one at the observation slot of D-35.
“Advocate?"
He stepped to D-35. Below the level of the slot a woman, too short to reach the aperture, leaned against the door.
“Advocate?"
“What is it?"
“I know you're interested in that one over there..."
“Am I?"
“I—I, yes, sir. Aren't you? Listen! Listen! I was in the van with her when they brought us in. If you'll help me I will tell you a few things."
The Advocate looked up and down the corridor. “I have little influence with the Authority, sister."
“I have nothing to lose, Advocate. I throw myself on your mercy. That one—she said she was here to find her mate."
“We know all that,” he said impatiently, turning away.
“She said that they would change things for our whole world! She said they had a gift—something she called ‘touching of palms.’ Have you ever heard of that, Advocate?"
Laying on of hands? He licked his lips. A healer? Was that what she was? She and her mate? That was totally against doctrine.
Hungry for her information, he felt himself going for the bait. He came close to D-35 and looked down through the slot. “What is it you claim to know, woman?"
Her eyes rolled up imploringly. Her voice was a frail tremble: “They—the ones already dead, the women who were with her—they said she spoke gladly of her mate. That he would give us the keys to paradise."
“Blasphemy!"
The woman's sky-blue eyes became circles of horror, and she cringed back holding her hand over her mouth.
“Go on,” he said, gathering control of himself. “Speak the truth as best ye know."
“Yes.” She rose, brushing her mussy hair with trembling hands. “She said that they were people from far away, at another star. A great star, a city of the galaxy, some such thing.” She laughed nervously to show that she did not believe such nonsense. “She said her mate had come as an ambassador.” The woman looked dully away. “And when she learned in her cell that you, that we, had killed him, she grew angry and said our kind would never enter paradise now."
“What about this paradise?” he demanded. “What kind of paradise? Of this mortal life, or of some Satanic abomination that goes against Scripture?"
“I don't know,” she wailed. “I assume we could get there right away before we die, Sir. Something about wonderful cities among the stars, and an end to war and suffering."
“What else?"
She shook her head, and tears ran down her cheeks. Tapped out, he thought.
Knowing that he should not act while in the grips of fervor, he nevertheless turned and, unlocking D-34's door, flung it open.
He entered the cell and slapped the strange woman across the face. “Your immortal soul is at stake here. I am not doing this for myself."
She smiled faintly, bitterly—maybe. Her expressions were hard to read.
“What is this paradise of which you told your cellmates?"
She remained silent.
“Shall I call the Questioner again?” Judging from her power to heal, he knew even as he spoke that threats were useless. He felt frustrated and powerless. He stalked out, infuriated.
Back in his office, the Advocate called Inquiry police and spoke with the lieutenant again. “There was more about that man we discussed earlier,” he said. “I know there was. I'll come in and examine the records, if I may."
“No need for that,” said the official quickly. The Advocate was grimly pleased to hear fear in the lieutenant's tone. “A moment, please, Advocate.” The connection went on hold for a minute. “Sir, there was an incident in the gas chamber last week. That one, the male you ask about, walked out alive after the gassing. It does happen, though rarely. They find airpockets under the bodies as they pile up, and—"
The Advocate barked: “Yes. What else?
The lieutenant sounded injured. “There were graffiti everywhere. On the walls, the floors, the ceiling—even on the bodies around him. I can't imagine how he could have done it. Even his body was covered with these same light gray symbols and cyphers like a dozen foreign alphabets jumbled together. The camp police said it scared them that he walked out, naked and unharmed, stepping over piles of bodies, and there seemed to be these letters floating in the air like alphabet soup."
The Advocate blinked in puzzlement at the telephone. “Where are these symbols now?"
“Sanitation scrubbed them off the stones, Sir. They burned the bodies, including his. And the letters lingering in the air just sort of blew away."
“Holy Name!” He couldn't mask his astonishment.
“I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't see any of this—I'm just reading from the report."
Why couldn't you have told me this before, you fool? “Thank you.” The Advocate hung up.
He began to fear that something had gone terribly wrong. The Authority was too efficient, too quick to kill. In 20 years he'd never found a single prisoner to give a Scripture-based reprieve. Why, why, why? He ground his fist into his palm as he paced around in his office. What was the purpose of all this killing anyway? One never saw enemy troops—only these frightened peasants who were put to death by the thousands. It was said the other side was set up similarly. What if a demon made his way in there and gave them knowledge that would help them defeat God's people? He tore his collar open and broke into a profuse sweat.
At that moment, he looked at the security monitor.
She was staring directly up into the camera. Into his eyes. Into his soul.
Her face remained expressionless, but he felt her cold contempt like a bony finger against his spine. He shoved the door aside and rushed across the hall. Fumbling with the combination lock, he entered her cell to shake her, roughly, but stopped. Those eyes, like yellow glass ... Involuntarily he stepped back.
For a moment, he glimpsed what could ha
ve been—not a vision, in the sense of what one saw with eyes—but a wonderment, a feeling, almost like he'd imagined heaven—a billowing whiteness and goodness filled with golden light, in which people were kind to each other, men walked with lions and stately silver ships filled the skies—
After a moment of this, the goodness was torn from him like a bandage from a wound, leaving it torn and oozing. He stepped back, tumbled, and went sprawling. Crawling away from her using his elbows, he cried, “I'm sorry!"
Someone screamed—cell D-35 maybe.
Boots came trampling, running.
The woman raised her arms.
Of course, he thought, we overlooked that too.
Men stood in the doorway, holding machine pistols—they stood frozen, the dim light gleaming on their leather straps and holsters, absorbed into their mustard-green police uniforms. They stood transfixed, mouths agape.
Arms apart, she floated inches above the floor.
Her face underwent a transformation—unreadable, manic, not human.
Her body began to turn, slowly at first, her thin garment rippling, then faster. A rushing, roaring, filled the Advocate's ears. He backed away until the wall stopped him.
Faster she spun, faster in a golden aura.
Blinded, he raised his hand to shield his eyes.
With a soundless detonation the air filled with flying letters, numbers, icons, cyphers—the key to the universe. She'd possessed it, he saw that now. The mate was only a test. She was the One.
The Advocate saw God, here, in this cell: he read the unreadable Word in the stream of information spewing from her very DNA as she uploaded the program, the grayware, that she'd brought to elevate mankind, sent it out into—nothingness, past the beings it was meant for.
The guards in the door dropped their guns. They crouched fearfully, huddled together. Wind blew their hair as they staggered back, holding each other.
Laughing, crying, the Advocate held up his hands to thrash among the cyphers that floated like dying embers. In the morning, Sanitation would scrub the last evidence away. Even if they saved these wondrous writings, nobody here would ever understand them without the living Rosetta stone spinning in the center of the cell.
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