Hadrian's Rage

by Patricia-Marie Budd

  “Are you her?”

  “Her, who?” Faial asks. Though she knows Angel means her, the lawyer who saved Frank Hunter’s life, she harbors so much resentment towards Angel and Grace that she is determined not to give either girl any sort of break.

  “Faial Raboud.” “The lawyer.” Angel and Grace both answer, their voices crawling over one another in desperate hope.

  “I am she.” Giving the women a quick glance, she points to their chairs with her eyes. “Sit down.” They do as they are told, both girls locking eyes on Faial, who purposely ignores them. Turning to the peace officer, noticing he is about to leave, she advises, “Officer, you should stay.”

  Both girls start at this curt order. They were led to believe their time with their counselor would be private. What neither girl seems to realize is that Raboud has no intention of representing them. She is merely there as the Head of Hadrian’s defense to determine whether or not another member of her team should be given the task of defending them. This decision, though already made up in her mind, is based on the facts of the case as presented by the interrogation team. In the voc vid, Angel confessed to getting Tara so intoxicated she could barely walk, to their stripping off her clothes, beating her, raping her with a beer bottle, then punching and kicking her until she is unconscious. When the investigator asked what she did after that, Angel said Grace was worried Tara might wake up and tell on them, so she hit her in the head three times with a brick. What really struck Faial as horrific was the cold and precise way in which Angel described the scene. When asked to give a reason for this attack and for spitting on the woman’s dead body, she replied simply: “She was a strai” and then acted as if this justified the matter. Thus, as Faial sees it, this meeting is merely a formality; she could easily make her decision without talking to the guilty parties. Watching the interrogation, hearing both women confess, was enough upon which to base her opinion. And yet, Faial is suffering from a masochistic need to hear the girls’ answers for herself. What she viewed seems too surreal. It is unfathomable that any human being could think this way and honestly believe her actions justified.

  “So,” Faial begins, “you admit to killing Tara Fowler.” Faial isn’t even bothering to put the question mark in her voice.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Angel responds first, “but it’s like Frank Hunter, see; we were killing a strai and—”

  Before Angel can finish, Faial cuts her off. “Like Frank Hunter? Tell me, when did Tara beg for you to take her life?” Angel stutters at this point. “No doubt,” Faial responds for her, “Tara’s life was so unbearable after being raped but—” here Faial pauses “—you were the ones to rape her.”

  Grace finds her voice. “I didn’t!”

  “No,” Faial agrees. “You just held her in place so Angel could rape Tara with,” looking Angel in the eyes, “what was it you used to simulate penile vaginal intercourse, a beer bottle?” Angel closes her eyes and sinks back into her chair. It is clear now Faial Raboud will not be defending them. “No, ladies,” Faial points out to them as if speaking to children, “you cannot equate your crime to that of Frank Hunter’s. Frank Hunter did not rape the victim. Frank Hunter did not beat the victim. Frank Hunter was the victim’s lover and best friend. He acted out of a false sense of mercy. You two, on the other hand, raped, beat, and murdered Tara for one reason only—because she told you she was heterosexual.” Glaring at the two girls now, Faial ends their meeting. “I will not defend you; no member of Hadrian’s National Defense team will defend you. You may seek out a private lawyer if you wish, but it will do you very little good as my recommendation, along with that of Hadrian’s National Prosecutor, Graham Sabine, is that you both be summarily exiled or offered Black Henbane for assisted suicide. Only one more voice is needed to seal your fate, that of Judge Julia Reznikoff.”

  Grace immediately bursts into tears as Angel cries out, “You can’t do this to us!”

  “I can and I will. You see, ladies, you both confessed, a witness connects you with Tara near the time of the murder, and your DNA, Ms. Higgins, was found on the dead girl’s body.” Faial turns cold. “In the name of Hadrian, why did you spit on the dead girl’s body?”

  “Because she was a fucking strai and strais make me sick!” Angel’s voice hisses out like that of a snake.

  Faial smiles grimly. “That ends this meeting. The facts of your case are simple. You are guilty. If Hadrian had hate crime laws, and I’m going to make sure we do very soon, I’d see to it that you were both executed. As the law currently stands, you get to choose between exile or assisted suicide.”

  Grace gasps.

  Angel glares, her eyes filled with hate. “Fucking strai lover.”

  “Call me what you will,” Faial sneers. “This meeting is over.” Standing now, as she intends to leave, Faial places both hands on the table and leans in closer to Angel’s face. “It doesn’t matter to me which choice the two of you make, just so long as it means you will never again reside in Hadrian!”

  *****

  Salve!

  Survival Kit for the Exiled

  HNN—Danny Duggin Reporting

  Today’s Salve! is going to look at the survival kit given to the exiled. As you know, when our citizens are exiled, they must head out into the unknown and find their own way in the outside world. The first few weeks are the most difficult as they trudge their way through the unruly terrain beyond Hadrian, which lies between our walls and the rest of humanity. As we know, this is to be the fate of two of Hadrian’s darlings. We will be losing Angel Higgins and Grace Godoy as they walk through the Midwest Gate tomorrow morning, deep into the tree line, making their way through the forest and what little wildlife might exist in the neutral zone between our world and the masses. As our girls will be heading in a western direction, it is most likely they will end up living in the country of Alberta. Hadrian has had some positive dealings with Alberta in the past; its prime minister helped curtail the attacks against our Wall by the Manitoba brigade. This gives the young women hope that they will be embraced within this outsider world.

  Honestly, I have no idea what it would be like to live amongst heterosexual barbarians. No doubt these two will have to hide their identities and pretend to be people they are not. This is something we have worked so hard against here in Hadrian, ensuring that no gay man or lesbian need ever have to hide whom he or she is ever again, and now two of our own are forced to venture out into that cold, intolerant world. It is sad irony, indeed, that they must now go live with the very people from whom they tried to defend Hadrian. Now, don’t get me wrong, Hadrian. I do not condone murder, but their act was not so very different from that of Frank Hunter’s five years ago. He, too, killed a strai, but he didn’t get exiled or offered henbane. No, this man is still alive and a member of our society. Granted, he must remain a part of Hadrian’s ground forces for the rest of his life, but even that is better than exile or death. It is the opinion of HNN and this reporter that Hadrian’s justice system abandoned these girls. They, too, should be sentenced to life in the military given the opportunity to shoot heterosexual barbarians from the top of our walls as was the advantage granted to Frank Hunter.

  Again, I veer off topic. Now I must race to tell you about the items that go into the survival kit for the exiled. Don’t worry; these women are not going beyond our Wall empty-handed. Each girl will be given a pair of thermal underwear, long rain slickers, thermal blankets, a tarp, a coil of rope, one bowie hunting knife, matches inside a waterproof box, a paperback guidebook to surviving in the forest (both women lost their vocal contact lens when incarcerated), a paper version of Hadrian’s most recent map of Alberta, as well as six weeks’ worth of dehydrated rations. Hopefully, this will be enough to help Angel Higgins and Grace Godoy survive the challenges they will no doubt face during their trek from Hadrian to the nearest town or city in Alberta.

  And now, a final word to the two women being exiled: Ladies, what you did was wrong. We all know that. I know you
know that, and I am certain you feel remorse for your actions. Killing that strai was foolish. I wish there was a way to change the minds of Hadrian’s justice system, but it appears your case has been irrevocably closed. Take care of yourselves out there in the wild terrain of the outside world. Be there for one another and stay strong. My thoughts, and the thoughts of Hadrian’s citizens, go with you.

  Vale!

  Unexpected Encounters

  After their night of violent lovemaking, Devon never goes out of his way to encounter Frank, or so he repeatedly tells himself. That night, as Devon sees it, was a mixture of anger and lust, and not one to be repeated. Regardless of his sadistic/masochistic nature, Devon acknowledges that their one night of battle-infused passion seemed to satiate both men, curing, for Devon at least, his anger and desire for revenge. As far as Devon is concerned, they need to go their separate ways and act as if their lovemaking never happened. Yet, as the days pass, the two men are always crossing paths. Devon finds this odd; the Midwest Gate is large enough for two men to go about their daily activities and never encounter one another, especially since one man is confined to a three-mile radius. Yet, somehow, Devon is constantly running into Frank. He can’t blame this all on Frank either. Frank is the one limited to where he can go, but it always seems like Devon’s duties bring him into contact with Frank. Devon is cordial every time he and Frank meet, and Frank always salutes as required as well as, oddly enough, offering Devon a shy smile.

  Sometimes, these encounters don’t even happen. Devon often finds himself seated at his assigned cubicle going over the schedule for an upcoming battle drill or reviewing the details of the last attack when he will suddenly look up and see Frank, except Frank isn’t there. What in Hadrian’s name does this mean? Devon wonders how he might rationalize either his encounters or daydreams. The next time he is really here—when I really see him—I will have to ask him—get him to—what? Back off? He hasn’t done anything. He’s the one restricted. I can go wherever I damn well please. He sticks to his daily routine. When off duty, he runs back and forth, up and down, and back and forth again, and then on Sundays, his one enforced day off, he goes to the historical library to—wait—how do I know that?—Antinous help me.

  “Rankin!” General Birtwistle’s voice is curt, ripping Devon roughly from his daydream. “Get your head in the game, Lieutenant!” Devon leaps up and stands at attention, saluting the general as per basic army regulations. “Sit down, Rankin. We were talking here, and suddenly, you stopped listening. Are you having some sort of stroke or seizure?”

  “No, sir.” Devon remains standing, clearly confused by how he managed to allow his mind to slip away during a critical meeting with the general. “I’m sorry, sir. I was just thinking about—”

  “About what? Frank Hunter?”

  Devon is shattered and stunned. “Sir?”

  “Oh, don’t play coy with me; the entire Wall is gossiping about your little tryst with him. How you tackled him in the dirt and got all hot and heavy until he dragged you back to his room. Don’t worry. You can rendezvous with that private recruit all you want. He’s been in the army longer than you and would have easily surpassed your rank had his sentence allowed for such promotion. I can make an exception for him on that account. Damn, I wish I had fifty more such men.”

  “Sir—I—we—don’t—”

  “Lieutenant-General Pauloosie led me to believe you were some crackerjack officer, career military and all that. Instead, I find myself saddled with a lovesick puppy.”

  “I am, sir—I mean, no, sir—”

  “Just bloody well sit down!” Devon resumes his seat. He isn’t even in his cubicle; he is in General Birtwistle’s office. They have been discussing the upcoming battle drills, and when the general recommended they bring in Frank Hunter to develop the details of the mock attack, Devon drifted off. “Now, may we resume talking about Private Recruit Hunter without you cooing over him in a fantasy again?”

  Devon blushes at the general’s accusation and immediately chastises himself. These random daydreams about Frank are getting out of control. “Yes, sir, I will talk to Fra—Private Recruit Hunter and ask—”

  “You are not going to ask him anything!” General Birtwistle is clearly annoyed. “He is your subordinate. You will order him to the task, and he will do it!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, as I was saying, your ideas are all very well and good, by the book and all that, but there is nothing new or even dangerous about them.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Let me finish before you start defending yourself. I know it is standard practice to use laser light technology for skirmish practice, all very impressive-looking, but it does waste a lot of energy, and the President has ‘requested,’”—here the general mimes quotation marks to show the order behind the President’s word choice—“we reduce our power consumption.”

  “But the Wall’s carbon capture units are constantly converting carbon dioxide into carbon neutral fuels—”

  “Yes, yes.” General Birtwistle is annoyed at this suggestion. “And all that carbon neutral fuel is reserved for the operating of our all terrain vehicles and aircraft. We cannot afford to use it for simulated attacks.”

  “We could use the urinators—” General Birtwistle raises a brow at the lieutenant’s use of slang. The urinator is actually a urine-operated generator. It was first developed in the early twenty-first century by four Nigerian schoolgirls.35 Little attention was paid to them at first, but the founders of Hadrian insisted they be one of the main sources of energy used. As practical as this form of energy is, most people are disinclined to use it since it requires an extraordinary amount of urine and, of course, there is always the smell. “Sorry, sir; that’s just what everyone calls them.” Devon coughs to hide his embarrassment.

  “As you were saying?” The general isn’t one for helping others save face.

  “We could use the urine-operated generators. This base is quite heavily populated, so I’m sure we could easily acquire enough urine to run the simulations for the duration of the skirmish.”

  “Yes, yes, yes, but that still makes use of the wave and technology.” And then in an aside, “Besides, they stink.” Devon can’t help but chuckle. As if offended, the general straightens his back and becomes even sterner, a feat Devon had thought impossible. “You don’t see, do you, Lieutenant; we are constantly thinking and working inside the wave, but our enemies are not. They are not connected in the same way we are. And these laser light shows create a game-like atmosphere. Our soldiers look forward to these events. They are ‘fun’!” Sarcasm and insolence drip. “No imminent danger is present. The end result is that our soldiers are no longer on their toes when a real attack happens. It is one thing to be shot through the chest with a beam of light; it means nothing if you can’t be killed. And shooting down a holographic man—where is the sense of reality in that? You see, this is why I brought up Private Recruit—don’t you disappear on me!”

  “No, sir; I’m paying attention.” Devon is determined to gain control over his emotions and the longing he is experiencing for Frank Hunter.

  “This is why I brought up Private Recruit Hunter. As a result of his sentence, Frank Hunter is in a unique position. Like the enemy, he thinks outside the wave. This is why he has proven to be such a great asset to this gate. Insisting he be transferred to my gate is one of my best maneuvers yet.” Initially, Frank Hunter was sentenced to the Northern Gate, but when General Birtwistle learned of the private’s extraordinary abilities as a sniper and tactical strategist, he knew he had to have him at his gate. The Midwest Gate suffers the greatest number of attacks. That piece of intelligence and the general’s founding family status were all he needed to wheedle Frank Hunter away from Lieutenant-General Pauloosie. “That young man knows when an attack will occur even before our monitors do. He is always on his game, constantly peering into the horizon through his scope, attentive to nature’s movements and manmade movements.”
The general pauses and looks Devon’s way as if to ascertain comprehension in the youth. Devon merely looks bemused. The general harrumphs in response, creating even more confusion in the young man. “There is another aspect about Frank Hunter that distinguishes him from the rest of us.”

  “And what is that, sir?” Devon wipes away the sweat starting to drip down the back of his neck. He is beginning to feel like this meeting has become an interrogation.

  “He reads.”

  “We all read, sir—”

  “Not the way Hunter reads. He spends every Sunday in the historic museum, the library, as I’m sure you already know.” Devon’s blush deepens; is the general being coy with him? “He reads books, word for word, line by line, page by page. Most of us just skim the information we get on the wave, listening to the voiceover rather than actually reading anything. Frank, on the other hand,” to Devon it seems like the general is referring to the private as a trusted confident, “well, he absorbs what he reads, thinks about what it all means. And, best of all, many of the books he reads are about the military strategies used over the ages. He studies war. And, like the enemy, he thinks outside the wave.”

  “What is the point of all this, sir?” Devon is still befuddled as to the general’s intent.