Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet

by Bō Jinn

  Every day for the last 11 months and 13 days, he woke with the terrible climax of some nightmare. The incubus never changed his plotline. The screaming always peaked just before waking. And when the screams withered from his mind, the throbbing pain in his head followed soon after.

  The morning sun beamed in through the windows in straight and illuminated lines of airborne dirt, inching up to his face. The lids stretched back over his bloodshot eyes, lighting his vision violet. It was the usual morning pattern, with one none-too-uncommon exception.

  He lifted himself up by the elbows and, feeling the soft flesh rub against him, looked over to his left. The sleek bare back was turned on its side beside him, thick braids of unfurled hair lay limp over the deep curve of her hip; skin scarred, smooth and ebony. Jasmine suffused the air. He had no memory of this jasmine woman, who she was or how she had found her way into his bed, which was normal enough. But that jasmine smell was familiar. The memory of a woman’s smell dies hardest of all.

  The jasmine woman’s head stirred. She rolled over onto her back with a waking moan and surveyed the squalid confines of the dreg den; kitchenette and lavatory within feet of the depressed mattress on the floor, the old, broken 2-D screen at the back, old paperback books on a solitary countertop and foul smells she could scarcely identify and the scuttle of vermin and the buzz of insects through the stagnant vents.

  He could see the slow shock of sobriety in the manner of her waking and rose before she could glimpse his face, lifting himself out from the bed and walking into the thin, horizontal beams of light toward the window. The view of the metropolis was hidden behind the big tube where the maglevs passed. The sun crept through the narrow spaces of the overpasses. A maglev rocketed past, as they did every 10 minutes or so, and the low rumble of the rails syphoned through the tube. When it passed, he heard the jasmine woman rise from the bed.

  “Where am I?” came a dazed groan.

  “Sixth Echelons. Durkheim.”

  “Never mix neurals and ambrosia.” She rubbed the palm of her hand against her temple with a groan and looked around. “…I slept here?”

  He turned a pair of glaring eyes over his shoulder. “One usually wakes where one sleeps.”

  “You’d be surprised.” She looked up and observed the obscure figure in front of her anew, eyes straining through the bright light of the newborn sun. The light cast shadows over his lean flesh and his arms were bound with gauze from the elbow to the wrist.

  He turned and she looked away the instant before their eyes met, rose and began to get dressed with her back turned to him. Seeing her – bare-bodied with the long braids cascading over her shoulders and breasts, down as far as her hips – flashes came to him through the residue of the nightmares and the stupor that hung over him still.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  The jasmine woman looked up and studied him. Her eyes were globes of dark jade.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I would like to know.”

  She looked askance. “Why?”

  Silence. When he did not turn or answer, she smirked and looked away.

  Her apparel was unusual for a walker. It was equally unusual that she was a particularly beautiful walker. That is by no means to say that walkers are not particularly beautiful. They would not have much to sell otherwise. But the walker business is very competitive, which begged the question as to why she would have wasted a good night’s profit on the likes of a dreg, for there was no possible way she could have assumed he was anything more than the lowest dreg in the metropolis.

  He reached for his coat, took out a handful of oblong silver coins and counted them: 78 Dimitars and 97 Ducats; all the wealth left to his name. Midway through count, he threw the money on the bed. The jasmine woman looked down at the coins and then back up at him.

  “I do not remember how much we agreed on,” he said. “You will probably increase the price. That should be enough.”

  “You think I’m a walker?” she snickered.

  The hair drew back from over her neck. He noticed something gleaming under the skin above her breast. Blending into her dark flesh was the seal of the UMC.

  “You are a martial,” he said, with vague astonishment.

  “Second Tier Elite.”

  He noted the signets marked in her flesh. “Impressive,” he muttered diffidently, as he opened a fresh pack of cigarettes.

  “Wish I could say the same,” she replied, surveying the little cubicle. “Are you a dreg?” she asked, quite point blank.

  “Why?” he asked, lighting his cigarette. “Ashamed already?”

  “No,” she said. “You were a means to an end. Besides, I doubt we’ll be seeing each other around anytime soon.”

  There was nothing more certain. Even if they did, it was likely they would not recognise one another. But that smell of jasmine was uncanny. Probably their paths had crossed once, he thought, before 11 months and 13 days ago.

  Having dressed, the jasmine woman straightened up and spared one last benevolent look, which he dismissed with a turned back. She paused, then patted around on her legs and felt around the insides of her coat until she took out a small black canister. The top of the canister opened when she pressed down on the base and three tablets rolled out and into the palm of her hand. Her throat bulged as she swallowed, took a deep breath and tossed the canister onto the bed beside him. “You look as though you’re low,” she said. “You can still afford to keep a cubicle so maybe you’re scraping the bottom of the dreg barrel. The price of neurals is way up these days. These’ll get you back on your feet.”

  He looked over his shoulder and eyed the cylinder with aversion. The cigarette smoke scorched his eyes.

  “Go ahead,” she insisted. “I’ve got plenty.”

  “No thank you,” he replied and looked away again.

  “Are you mad because I’m not who you thought I was? Don’t be a proud dreg. Go on. Take them… Might be your last hope.”

  A mist of smoke blew from his lips into the thinning beam of light. He raised his eyes to the sun and kept silent.

  The jasmine woman shook her head and turned away. “You know; don’t look new here,” she said. “But, just in case you are, a little word of advice: You won’t last long if you don’t stick with the program. So, if you’re not on one yet, you ought to find yourself a neuralist, and quick.” She made for the door, and just before she left she added, “And stop asking walkers for their names, or anyone else, if you can help it. Don’t go looking for me, dreg… I’m warning you.”

  She lingered a while as though waiting for a response. When none came, the door slid open and then closed again. He heard the echoes of her footsteps fade in the barren corridor.

  There was a blue glow in the corner of his eye just as the last ray of sunlight blinked away. His cell was ringing. O730 , according to the chronometer on the bedside.

  Right on schedule…

  He got up off his bed and picked the cell up off the counter. The caller ID flashed over the screen. He laid the cell back on the counter, tapped the display and blue light rippled out from his fingertip and a holographic pillar of white shot out from the display. The photons swirled and the miniature figure of a man appeared in the pillar of light.

  “Rise and shine, Martial.”

  “Malachi.”

  “Vartanian… you look like hell.”

  “Then I will fit the job description.”

  He took out a cigarette and sat.

  “The contract closes today,” said Malachi. “The meeting with the broker is in less than 30 minutes. Did I mention the meeting was at the Vanguard?”

  “I remember…” He lit the cigarette.

  “The most exclusive martial syndicate in the first region; you don’t even think to get cleaned up? You look like a damn dreg.”

  “Elegance does not count for much in our trade.”

  “Well, you sure as hell ain’t getting in the Sixth Circle looking like that. SG might j
ust shoot you on sight.”

  And that would be terrible for business…

  “You’ve lost weight. Think you can still carry your gear?”

  “I can fight,” he assured.

  “Well, wouldn’t be good for much in this world if you couldn’t, now would you?” said Malachi. ‘You remember the name of the broker?”

  “Commissioner Donald Clarke Eastman… Do not patronise me.”

  “You’ve been out a long damn time. They’ll make you take an eval.”

  “I know.” A stream of smoke flowed from his nostrils.

  “We had to pull a lot of strings to get here. Don’t fuck this one up before it starts. And put that damn smoke out. Who smokes those anymore anyway?”