Executioner's Lament

by Justin Rishel

  Satisfied that her Mentor was finally settled and as comfortable as she could make him, she left for her room, for her journal.

  * * *

  After a sleepless night, Francesca rose early the next day. The events of the evening before kept her busy writing in her journal well into the early morning hours and as she lay in bed afterward, staring at the ceiling, the night replayed itself relentlessly in her mind.

  Her thoughts often wandered to the well-being of her Mentor. She assumed he would heal quickly and that he had many more Tasks in him before the Taint finally laid claim to his body.

  Perhaps, she thought, last night’s effect from the Taint was worse than usual. Perhaps some other variable exacerbated the impact.

  Wiping sleep from her eyes, she wondered when her Mentor would allow her to take Zentransa. Full Members were allowed and encouraged to take the sleep eliminating pill, but it was the Mentor’s choice whether to allow an Apprentice to do the same. She knew that some full Members abstained, but it was extremely rare. Most used the pill for the extra time it gave them to write in their journals or study. Francesca had never taken the pill and questioned if she would find the loss of sleep to be a positive addition to her life. She enjoyed the cleansing effect of sleep. She enjoyed the feel of a warm bed and a soft pillow. Maybe after her apprenticeship, she would be one of the few Members that abstained from the Z pill.

  Standing, she stretched for several minutes. Her Mentor’s last order had been for her to spend her day making observations. Tempted to check on Rudolfo though she was, she resisted the urge to go see him. Instead she showered, donned clean clothes, and ate some food from her duffel bag—an apple and some bread with nuts and dried fruit baked into it. With her journal tucked under her arm she left and made her way to the observation room.

  It didn’t take long for her to figure out how to toggle between cameras on each of the five monitors. She played with the viewpoints until settling on two that covered common areas and two that bounced from cell to cell.

  It was early in the morning, 6:30 am, and most of the prisoners were not awake yet. Some, however, began milling about outside their cells the minute the automatic locking doors sprung open at 6:00 am. Guards stood by in every corner and she felt there must be many more watching from cameras like her.

  Breakfast in the mess hall started at 7:00 am and the prisoners had until 8:00 am to finish eating. Then they would be herded into the massive freight elevators to be ferried down to their working parties. In the early evening, 6:00 pm, all work would stop and they would be returned to the ward to eat dinner and have some free time, with lights out at 10:00 pm.

  They would repeat this routine six days a week with every Sunday reserved for rest, relaxation, and religion.

  She sat and observed the ward in the hours before the inmates left for their working parties, carefully watching every interaction for anything worth noting. There was nothing.

  She toggled cameras non-stop, zooming in and listening to scene after scene, but nothing stood out. At breakfast, with most of the ward in the mess hall at one time and with her and Rudolfo physically absent, she expected to see or hear something substantial. Other than curse words shouted in jest here and there, the entire morning passed without incident.

  At 8:00 am sharp, she watched the prisoners line up in several columns just outside the freight elevators. This was a well-practiced routine, each inmate knowing where to be. Some were cajoled and prodded into place, but most were compliant. Soon, neat lines of white-clad men were packed into human rectangles of a hundred inmates, ready for work.

  The working parties were their only break from the monotony of the Coppice; most looked forward to it, especially the ones who got to work outside. It took four trips for their entire ward to be transported to various floors of the prison or down to the train platform. Each team of inmates was escorted to their duty stations by a guard.

  Using a surveillance map Rudolfo had shown her earlier, she was able to find which cameras showed the part of the prison she wanted to view. This included the elevators and working party locations. Outdoors was more difficult, but she could also tap into the guards’ bodycams, giving her a somewhat comprehensive if shaky vista of the prisoner’s activities.

  She could use the cameras stationed on the prison’s perimeter and those mounted on transport vehicles. Using the inmates’ bar code tattoos, she was able to program the video feeds to highlight those from her ward with a yellow halo.

  Working parties were integrated with prisoners from different wards. Larger ones, like the tree harvesting crews, were made up of men and women from nearly every ward.

  She watched for hours and was relieved to find that the intermixing with the other wards incited several incidents and exchanges worth noting. She had no desire to see these men and women do bad things, but she wanted to test her own skills of observation in real time.

  Before lunch, inmates from her ward were involved in a fight that broke out in a scullery, two were caught in a sexual exchange in a maintenance shed, and one was discovered with a shiv hidden in his clothing. All were punished on the spot by the guards and/or isolated for the day.

  She noted everything including the other inmates’ reactions to the violators, which could be just as important.

  Shortly before midday, Francesca watched the tree harvesting crew from one of the vehicle-mounted cameras. She noticed a prisoner, tall and thin, haloed in yellow, talking to a small group. He leaned on a long shovel stuck into the ground and appeared to be in light conversation, but the other inmates looked at him with stares that looked too intense for casual chatting.

  The group hung on every word and it was clear to her that whatever the skinny man was saying held great weight with them. He spoke to them for several minutes and despite her efforts, she could not get the vehicle’s camera or any nearby to zoom in close enough to hear what he was saying.

  As she watched, the speaking man gave a sideways glance to an approaching guard and the group broke up. As they dispersed, the man with the shovel, whose words so interested the rest of the group, walked toward her camera. A minute later, he passed in front of it.

  She recognized him at once as the man from the day before, the only one who would look directly at her and Rudolfo, the only one who dared make eye contact with them.

  Taking notes on what she saw, she decided she would highlight this when she spoke with Rudolfo later that day or the next, whenever he felt up to it.

  Suddenly, she felt hungry and, thinking of Rudolfo, realized he must not have had anything to eat that day since he couldn’t leave his room. Springing to her feet, she rushed back to her room, gathered what food remained from her duffel bag and marched to her Mentor’s room.

  * * *

  Nicholas Fox left the group of promising recruits and strolled past the large orange mulching truck with its six tall wheels. The guard had cut short his impromptu speech, but Fox had made his point. When the time came, those men would be willing participants, ready to contribute.

  Truck’s contribution to his plan had worked perfectly. He couldn’t have asked for more. Truck had followed through with his dirty deed and right now his body was being vaporized in the prison crematorium. Soon, he’d be added back to the earth, as they all would be.

  Truck’s sacrifice gave Fox the conditions he needed to conduct his experiment. Fox had to see if it were possible to remain conscious during a Tapping. He now knew that he could, even as gas filled the cell.

  Inmates had dabbled in the trickery for years—using all manner of homemade breathing devices from long tubes connected to canisters and bags of air—with varying degrees of success.

  The gas released during a Tapping permeated every crack, crevice, and fold; it penetrated every fabric, which made it more complicated than simply hiding under a blanket or breathing from a tube connected to a plastic bag.

  Fox had long guessed that the cells were pressurized and during the gas’s release the pressu
re was manipulated to ensure it traveled into every available space. He also guessed their blankets and clothes were made from overly porous material to allow the gas to pass through them with ease.

  Fox himself had tried it once or twice, but the trick to it was to be prepared. One had to know exactly when to use the alternative breather before the gas started and knowing when a Tapping was going to occur was akin to playing the lottery. Sometimes one week bore witness to several Tappings, while at other times months might pass between them.

  Even a very small amount of the gas would, in short order, put a full-grown man on his back. And then there was always the question of why do it in the first place. Many inmates openly enjoyed the gas and the dreamless sleep it provided. Sleeping well in prison was exceedingly difficult. Plus, there was the added benefit of not knowing if it was you who was not going to wake up; passing ignorantly into the void was preferred to seeing it coming.

  Therefore, the breather was easy to procure. Fox went for his normal work detail on the tree harvesting crew and approached his usual supplier of strange goods. Later in the day, they both feigned injury and were returned to their cells. Fox only had to wait patiently in his cell for his supplier to turn up with the breather, which he did just after lunch.

  It wasn’t complicated—a rubber mouthpiece with a thin hose running from it to a cylinder about as long as Fox’s forearm—but guaranteed by its maker to work. He claimed to have used it himself a number of times. Fox still marveled at how easy it was to get his hands on an item like this. All the technology inside the Keep and they still couldn’t prevent people from being devious and clever.

  He began breathing from it the moment the lights went out the night following Truck’s murder. The breather’s maker told him he had several hours of breathable air, but he had to be careful to keep his nose closed.

  That night, in his bunk, he laid on his side to conceal the device under his blanket and began breathing through the mouthpiece while holding his nose closed.

  As the noise in the passageway died away, he made doubly sure his lips made a tight seal around the mouthpiece and squeezed his nose ever tighter. From one cell over, an inmate yelled, “Good luck, boys!” then all fell quiet—the only sign that the colorless, odorless gas had been released.

  A thud on the floor told him someone’s ill-timed ascent to their bunk went awry. Deep breathing above and below him signaled the sleep had come for everyone else in his cell.

  Fox continued breathing through the tube for what felt like an hour. The stomp of the guards’ boots outside the cell told him it was close to being over. More sounds in the passageway were, he assumed, the guards removing the body of his willing sacrifice Truck.

  A short while later, life returned to his cell. Inmates stirred while others slept on.

  Fox, on the other hand, had made it through the entire Tapping wide awake.

  Now, he would need one more volunteer in order to get his plan moving.

  * * *

  At Rudolfo’s door Francesca knocked. A brief pause, a beep, and she heard the door lock click. Taking this as a sign of welcome, she pushed the door open and entered.

  Laying on his bed, Rudolfo lay reclined on a few sad looking pillows. A worn paperback book lay on his lap. He looked up at Francesca as she entered. His eyes were soft and welcoming for a moment, then hardened as they settled on her.

  “I thought you were someone else.” He rolled his head and continued reading. His chest rattled with labored breathing, his skin still appeared pale and gray.

  Uneaten food lay on his bedside table and his cassock lay neatly folded over a nearby chair. He wore a long sleeve undershirt, buttoned and clean; overall, he looked quite tidy as did his room. It was the same size as hers with not much more in the way of possessions. His bookshelf had more books than hers, which held exactly zero at the moment.

  He did not wear gloves, but his hand was the only stained part of him exposed, the rest hiding under his long shirt sleeve.

  “I brought some food for you,” she said, holding up the small parcel.

  “As you can see, I already have food.” Not looking up from his book, he waved a shaky hand toward his nightstand.

  “Yes, I see. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “You can follow my instructions,” he said, now glaring at her. “I believe I told you to observe the ward from the observation room today. Last night was a blur for the most part, but I do remember that.”

  She straightened and lifted her chin. She knew he must be in a great deal of pain in addition to being tired and weak. His tone stung, but she wouldn’t let him know that.

  “Yes. Quite right. I will return to my station.” She turned to leave when his words cut off her escape.

  “Or have you come here hoping to get a glimpse of what is underneath my clothing—to have another look at my mark?” The words hit her like poison gas.

  Francesca had been morbidly curious about Rudolfo’s mark even before last night. She still was, but the accusation was clear.

  “I told you to leave me. I told you to let me be.” He pointed the paperback at the chair holding his cassock. “And yet, I wake to find myself disrobed, which I could not have done myself.”

  “You were suffering,” she said, staring at the wall above his head. She would not push back but she would not be a weakling either. “You said you were hot, so I …”

  “I was hallucinating! Do you have any idea what years of doling out the Task will do to you?” Splotches of red appeared on his neck and cheeks. “The toll that hundreds of them will have on the mind?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Then you should have known better!” He tried to raise himself but could only manage to lean on one elbow, pointing at her with the book in the other hand. “Or, did you do it just to see? Just to ogle at my arm?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “A Member’s path is their own to take.” He coughed and wheezed, forcing him to roll further onto his side. Francesca lunged to him, afraid he would roll off his bed but he threw out a hand stopping her. “This burden is mine.” He was staring over the edge of the bed at the floor, his breathing harsher now than before. His voice came out in a graveled whisper. “This is my path to take. I will not be a spectacle for your sick curiosity.”

  Rudolfo took several deep ragged breaths and with some effort flopped onto his back. His eyes on the ceiling once more, the two of them stared in silence for a moment.

  “Twice you’ve disobeyed me.” He spoke without looking at her. “Do not let there be a third time.”

  “Of course. Next time …”

  “Next time?” he interrupted. A deep breath gargled in his chest, then he finished his thought. “If there is a next time, I’ll Tap you myself.”

  The words were a blow, more bruising by far than the vitriol with which they were delivered. Using the slang term for their essential function reduced her to something lowly, something unworthy. It was as if he were suggesting they perform the Sacred Task on a slug.

  She stood stock still, but her mind sank. She barely registered a sound at the door—someone knocking. She turned as a young man, not much older than her, walked in. He had a well-defined face, his hair close cropped. He wore a guard’s uniform—light blue shirt and dark gray trousers.

  The guard’s eyes grew wide, as if not expecting to see her in the room with Rudolfo. She looked to the guard’s side where he held a large book under his arm. The book looked strikingly similar to her Mentor’s. The guard held a Member’s logbook, she had no doubt.

  The new visitor didn’t say anything but looked at Rudolfo who continued lying on his back.

  The Member raised a hand and made a shooing motion. “Return to your duties. You are done here.”

  There was no mistaking whom he directed this toward.

  13

  Partners

  June 7, 2043

  “To Ryan Grant.” Deputy Inspector Liz Reynolds held her half-empty mug o
f amber colored beer high over the table in a back corner of Winky’s Bar. A dozen hands gripping identical mugs, brown bottles, and cocktail glasses swung in to meet hers in a din of clinks. Murmurs of support, “Cheers,” and, “To Ryan,” followed.

  Aubrey lowered his glass and took a long, deep pull from the warm swill inside. She pushed through the crowd to stand next to him and they exchanged a somber nod. He resisted the urge to ask how she was doing. The glaze in her eye told Aubrey all he needed to know.

  He set his mug down next to ten other empties on the table. All around him were cops in and out of uniform there to honor their fallen brother. Aubrey was the only civilian among them, but since he had once carried a badge coupled with his work on the OFP and BSS cases from weeks prior, they all treated him as if he were one of their own.

  “Have you spoken to his family?” Aubrey asked. Despite being four beers into what looked to become a long night, Liz still wore her blazer and her shirt was neatly tucked into her slacks.

  She downed the last of her beer and wiped the moisture from her lips as she stared down into the empty glass. “He only had a sister left. His parents were pretty old when he was born and they both passed a few years back.” Liz shook her head. “She took the news as you’d expect. I told her we’d be here for her. You know, all the usual stuff, because I had no fucking idea what to say.”

  Aubrey regarded the others in the room. Drawn faces, untucked shirts and loose ties, some laughing heartily at unheard jokes. Each man and woman dealing with the loss in their own way based on their own built-in coping mechanisms.

  Aubrey never knew how to act or what to think when he lost a friend. It took time for him to cope properly and allow himself to come to terms with the person’s absence in his life. He’d remember Ryan Grant as a brave, funny, and intelligent person and a fine detective. He assumed the others would as well.

  Aaron Lewis approached the two of them with three bottles in his hands. Sweat gleamed off the brown glass.