* * *
Wodan laid in the dungeon for a week. He fell sick the first day, not unlike when he first returned to Haven, but his symptoms were not as bad. They had supplied him with some books from the Holy Series, which he ignored, as well as pens and paper, on which he drew idle sketches. Two black Reavers sat outside his cell. He had said hello to them, once, but they ignored him, and so he ignored them in turn. The food was bland, but he developed a taste for it. He came to know his sink, his stool, his toilet, his cot. He realized that the prison stank just like the back rooms of all the grocery stores he had worked in; places of stagnation and decay. He meditated in an effort to release his rage. He slept much of the first day.
His sickness soon departed. On the second day he began to exercise, mostly push-ups and sit-ups. He held the bars of his cell from behind and did leg lifts. He consumed the food as soon as it was brought to him, often handing the empty tray back to the attendant before he could leave. He took short, deep, dreamless naps. He often wondered why the two helmeted Reavers never spoke to one another; they sometimes looked at one another, nodding as if pantomiming speech. He wrote letters to his mother, to his father, and to Professor Korliss.
On the third day, or perhaps the fourth, he heard the voices of Guardians in the hallway. Wodan’s heart blasted when he realized they were Third Force Guardians. Even before they approached, they demanded to see the prisoner and launched into a spiel about paperwork and the presence of the Reavers being a breach of jurisdictional parameters. The Reavers immediately lifted their visors and shouted a barrage of challenges and rebukes. The Reavers approached the gang of Third Force goons and, even though Wodan could not see what was happening, he could hear the sound of a struggle, pushing, cursing. Wodan’s terror left when he realized the Reavers were laughing during the entire struggle. The Third Force Guardians left in a rage, then returned seconds later with promises of violence, then left again as soon as the Reavers turned back to them. Wodan could hear the goons shouting as they retreated up the stairwell.
The two Reavers returned, lowered their visors, and resumed their silent vigil. Wodan was amazed that the two fighters had manhandled such a large gang of men. He used the adrenaline from the encounter to stretch out his exercise routine. Exhausted, he turned to his cot and drew detailed diagrams of the power structures of Haven: Vachs and his cronies, Sevrik and Udo and the Guardian forces, Didi, some of the inventions of the DoR, the Makers of Mothers, then made an outline of some of the teachings of Professor Korliss Matri. He made detailed notes on whatever strengths and flaws he could find in the structure.
On the next day, he increased his exercises even further by finding muscles that were not sore and finding ways to push them. As he worked, the Reavers took off their black helms and talked to him. They were quite amiable. They said they had spoken to Yarek Clash himself and received permission to speak to Wodan, and even to sneak him some protein and energy bars. Wodan talked to several shifts of the fighting men. Most of them seemed simple in their ambitions and direct in their ideas, which inspired Wodan greatly. He often joked with them, despite his situation, and their laughter echoed off the dank stone dungeon. That night Wodan wrote a short story incorporating the personality and ideals of the Founding Fathers in the bodies of forest animals.
On what was to be the last day of his imprisonment before his trial, Wodan stopped in the middle of his exercises. Why should he bother to exercise? He knew Aegis Vachs was most likely doing everything in his power to have Wodan executed. What was the point of exercising if he would soon be dead?
What’s the point of lounging around if I’ll soon be dead? he thought. He continued his exercises.
His exercises didn’t turn him into a superman, but he was surprised to see small improvements. He threw some punches and one of the Reavers, a bearded man with a topknot, told him to rotate his body rather than throw the whole of his weight forward. He showed him how to hit with the two large knuckles of his hand so that he wouldn’t damage the knuckles of the pinky and ring finger. Showed him how to swing with his elbows, around and to the front, or out and to the side, and said that even a little guy could devastate a foe’s jaw with such a maneuver. Wodan remembered that he’d heard similar things from Sevrik Clash, long ago, but the lessons meant so much more now. Wodan told the men how he had killed a small, wild dogman in the wasteland, and how he had fought against ghouls with Marlon, his Guardian friend.
* * *
The Prosecutor walked about Debate Focus and gave his opening speech. He had enormous cheeks that grew pink from the cold. He spoke as if he were auditioning for a theatrical production, and his body often froze in place while his eyes darted about, forcing the audience to wait with bated breath while he came to a decision concerning some turn of phrase.
“... a victim of a superman complex, a wild animal who considers himself above the law. And we are all at fault for this. We know that he spoke to the imprisoned Head of the DoR, a man who considers himself to be a god above any sort of civil or natural law. Who knows what was said that night? Who can say how an already confused young man had his mind perverted still further? And even before then, he was a victim of our broken University system. He fell under the influence of a professor who actively teaches that young men and women should subvert the law and resent authority… that they should respect nothing and follow the wisdom of no one! This is a school that arms terrorists with the psychological weapons that they need, as evidenced by the young outlaw Luumis Lamsang, who is a sort of “comrade-in-arms” to the accused. If you take a headstrong young man from the world of theory and academic depravity and put him in the real world, where could he go? What could he do with his violent impulses? Would he go to the Guardians? Even there we find embodiments of the very opposite of their name, as evidenced by the fact that the top dog has a son who leads a pack of black-clad assassins who answer to no one and have no official paperwork that anyone can scrutinize in any way...”
Much, much later, the Prosecutor turned directly to the jury and said, “We are dealing with a young criminal whose mind was shaped by a mysterious cabal that wants to undermine the very foundations of Haven! But here, ladies and gentlemen, here, we have the chance to say NO. To stop the evil in its tracks. And maybe, just maybe, to push it back into the darkness from which it came.”
From the sidelines, Wodan began to have a giggling fit. He hunched his face into his sleeve and pretended to wipe his nose. Then, not wanting people to think that he was crying, he hardened his face and stared ahead. Just then the Prosecutor threw both arms into the air during some sort of climactic pronouncement and Wodan snorted loudly, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. He looked down at his body, at the black sweater of a prisoner with numbers in gray stitched in front. You’re a prisoner, Wodan thought, stifling his laughter. This is serious!
* * *
Luumis Lamsang laid in the basement of 312 Housing, the very same apartment building where he had gotten the bomb from Nicholas. He had been there for nearly a week, living on years-old cans of abandoned cat food; the place looked like a group of felines had prepared for some kind of nuclear winter by stockpiling magazines and chicken-flavored slop. On the first night of his exile, he had made the mistake of trying to sleep in the wild and had nearly frozen to death. He was only just now recovering from a hacking cough. He had found a perfect cave that night and, limbs nearly frozen, decided to build a fire. He realized he had no idea how to build a fire, then decided that armored assassins would probably see the smoke, anyway. He focused his anger on the Guardians as he stumbled back into town just before dawn. There were even Guardians at this very building, but the fools were too dumb to cover anything but the doors, and so he had been able to slip into a broken window that led directly to his current refuge. It was here that Father Industry had given him his bounty of slick, mucus-drenched Kitty Vittles.
His frustrations from that first night infected, and even killed, the joy he had felt in setting off the bomb. H
e had nightmares all night. After waking, he was struck by an overwhelming thought: The fact that he had lied to Darel about the visions he had when he was trapped under the boulder, over a month ago, had been so powerful that even he, Luumis, had believed them. He had not considered the visions of the Lord of the Hunt to be a lie, not really, because the understanding imparted by the falsified vision had been about truth. But Darel, that prick, would not have believed those truths if Luumis hadn’t dressed them up a little. Yet his words had been so powerful that they had reshaped his own psyche. The Voice, the Lord of the Hunt, even the divine charge given to him, his destiny as Nature’s Chosen One - all of it, really, was taken from a mishmash of stories he’d read or seen in movies. But he’d still followed through, despite Nicholas’s weakness and constant whining. He had still overcome against all odds. In realizing all of that, he himself was overcome, and could not rise from the floor for the entirety of that first day in the basement. He just laid there, knowing.
Days went by. All was repetition. Lying about, eating cat food, snarling at the suspiciously long list of ingredients on the side. He found a hoard of fashion magazines, curled up and stiff with mold. He grew to hate the faces inside, smiling, beautiful, designed to fool the masses but blackened with spores of mold that only he could see. And it was cold. Always, always so cold.
One night he could not stand the inactivity. He snuck out of the window and trudged through the snow to his old apartment. He had to see Darel and confer with their leader Michonardo. He vowed to tell them just what he thought of them, now that he had dared to do the sort of thing they could never even imagine. He saw, in the nick of time, that there were Guardians standing about the apartment. He climbed the fire escape of a nearby building, thinking that he could leap to the roof of the apartment. When he reached the top, he saw that the roof was impossibly far away. He moved about until he could see into Michonardo’s window. The light was on. Squinting his eyes, he could see that Michonardo was passed out in his bed, cradling an empty bottle. He threw a small stone, but it was no use, their leader was completely passed out. Luumis collapsed in despair. Before he realized what he was doing, he had already made his way back and was in the middle of climbing back down into the damned basement. He passed out, then woke up in a cold sweat when he realized he had left a trail of footprints all the way to his lair. He rose and saw that fresh-fallen snow had covered his tracks. He had been forgotten.
A week, perhaps more, passed. Sick of the repetition, he achieved a new emotion beyond despair, a thing that no mortal man could ever feel, much less name. He was horrified by the realization that the cat food would last for months, if not years, for he had hardly put a dent in the supply. He went up the stairs and into the hallway, then found a newspaper in front of a door - with his picture on the front page! He stole it and returned to the basement.
When he opened it, he wailed in agony when he realized the picture was not of him - it was that jerkoff, Wodi! “Trial of the Superman”... not his trial, but Wodan’s!
The crassness! The absurdity of it all!
He read the article, rage boiling, freezing, then boiling again. On the very day after Luumis had made his Great Statement, his “explosive” counterpoint to a banal society, Wodan had to steal his thunder by sneaking up on some Guardians and killing them practically in their sleep. What was worse, he had motive. Motive?! A superman complex?! Any dumb dog could have a motive to eat or take a shit. Revenge - simple, silly, human, organic revenge! Motive! Hah! A god destroys on pure whim! The common man cannot understand him! Try, you little fools, try to understand a true superman! And find yourselves driven mad by the understanding!!!
Luumis fell back into the nest he had made for himself. Frustrated and forgotten, utterly forgotten. He whipped off his pants and jerked off to one of the fashion magazines so that he could go to sleep and enjoy oblivion, at least for a while.
* * *
The Prosecutor circled Yarek Clash on the witness stand. Yarek sat immobile, hood swept back from his black cloak. Twin jets of steam shot neatly from his nostrils at regular intervals.
“Mister Clash... er, should I call you by rank?”
“I have no rank. Mister is fine.”
“Mister Clash, can you tell us a little about your special Guardian unit?”
“No, I cannot. That information is classified.”
“Mister Clash, would you tell us how you came by information regarding the assault on the Third Force unit by Mister Kyner?”
“You mean against the Hell Hounds.”
“Yes.”
“I cannot. That information is classified.”
“Interesting. Can you tell us what you saw when you approached the scene of the massacre?”
“No, I cannot. That was a Reaver operation and information about it is classified.”
“I see. And can you say anything concerning allegations that you have been giving the accused preferential treatment in the dungeon?”
“Yes. I made sure he was protected by a Main Force Unit because I didn’t want him to be raped by Third Force personnel.”
A gasp went through the crowd.
The Prosecutor swung about, caught the jury and the crowd in the sweep of his voice, and said, “And what, I wonder, is it about the nature of your character that would cause you to say that Third Force Guardians would molest a prisoner?”
“Because all Third Force Guardians are homosexuals,” Yarek said loudly.
A great burst of laughter erupted from a group of laborers and Guardians in the crowd. The Prosecutor glared at Wodan, who was caught in a fit of laughter as well.
* * *
The Prosecutor leaned against the stand amiably and gazed up at Seloid Cramer.
“Tell us a little about yourself, Mister Cramer.”
“I’m the personal secretary to Prime Minister Aegis Vachs.”
“And do you like your job?”
“I love it,” said Cramer, smiling coldly. His blond hair bounced lightly in a gust of wind.
“And how, in your estimation, was the state of Mister Kyner when he approached you on the night of the murder?”
“He was in an agitated state. He could barely form a full sentence, and even tripped over words that went beyond a monosyllable. He asked many aggressive questions about the Prime Minister that, frankly, made me a little uncomfortable.”
“Did you feel that you were personally in danger?”
“No... not exactly. But I feared for the life of the Prime Minister. Mister Kyner seemed a bit of a conspiracy theorist, really. A boy confused about the difference between fantasy and reality. At the time, I thought that his unfortunate stint in the wasteland had addled him. I truly hoped that he would find some peace. Even now, I feel that he can be socially readjusted if given proper psychiatric care.”
“That’s quite a merciful opinion, Mister Cramer, which I’m not sure the rest of Haven feels. That is all, thank you, Mister Cramer.”
“Thank you, sir. May I return to work now?”
* * *
Wodan was called forth. He felt a harsh clarity of vision as he walked through Debate Focus. His chains clanged about loudly, echoing unmercifully. He took his seat on the elevated podium and saw hundreds of faces and eyes burning into him. The Prosecutor stood directly in front of him, but cast his face to either side.
“Mister Kyner, can you tell us why your fingerprints were found on several firearms at the scene of the massacre?”
“When you touch something,” said Wodan, “it leaves an imprint. No one’s hands are perfectly clean.”
“Mister Kyner, there were a number of dangerous, explosive land mines, designed to destroy human bodies, placed all around the scene. It was only luck that spared the lives of Third Force investigators from falling into any of your nefarious traps! What do you have to say about this?”
“They were very good traps.”
“Mister Kyner, what on earth were you doing at the scene of the massacre?”
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“I went there to kill Guardians.”
A great wail rushed through the crowd.
“Why?” the Prosecutor cried out.
“Because they murdered my friends,” said Wodan, gritting his teeth. “I brought my friends here so that they could be free. And now they’re dead.”
“Free!? Like how you think you’re free to do anything - even take a human life?”
“Those so-called Guardians abandoned their humanity long ago. You’ve seen the video! Who in their right mind breaks into someone’s home and kills four good, innocent people? Those men were vermin. They deserved to die. Instead of trying to have me put to death, sir, you should be giving me a medal.”
A terrible silence followed. The Prosecution turned his back on Wodan and held his arms out at his sides.
“The Prosecution rests.”
* * *
The white-haired Judge turned to the jury, said, “Ladies and gentlemen, go and make your decision. I want you to come back with a verdict of guilty.”
The jury left and returned in a matter of minutes and handed the verdict to the Judge.
Wodan was brought in chains to the center of Debate Focus by two Guardians.
The Judge rose, said, “Romana Wodan Kyner, the jury finds you guilty.”
A great clamor from the crowd - gasps mixed with cheers.
Wodan remained erect. He felt nothing save something like a bolt of lightning thrashing from the crown of his head down to his feet, holding him erect. Even though his eyes were sharp and alive, his face was a mask, as if the body’s occupant had already left.
Demonworld Book 2: The Pig Devils Page 21