Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet

by Bō Jinn

  The anteroom of House 7, Ares Caste Court: the small, windowless space, the single desk, the two chairs under a bright pale LED light, the empty chair, the door to the right, another to the left, the two holoscreen frames on the opposite wall which were never on, but if they were it would have unquestionably been some UMC propaganda.

  It was the 13h time he had been there.

  At least one season had come and gone. During that time, he had taken in a kind of passive insight into the mechanisms of martial justice, not least among which was the fact that the martial courts were partitioned according to caste, and justice was dispensed more equally among some castes than others. For the law, like everything else in the martial world, was a commodity earned with blood.

  He waited: a skin-deep silence, only partially sentient to the world. The blank screen opposite reflected back a shadowy silhouette, and when he raised his head, the overhead light lifted the shadow from his features. His face had thinned. The skin had paled. The sharp lines of bone and muscle around the jaw and orbitals bulged and the veins swelled.

  He heard the door open and then close from the right, echoless in the small room. Some vague figure walked into his line of sight, pulled up the empty chair opposite and sat.

  “Martial Vartanian… we meet again.”

  Eastman set his briefcase down on the desk and the locks clicked open with his touch.

  “There is good news, bad news, and … unresolved news,” said the commissioner, drawing a black file marked with the insignia of the UMC and the brand of the martial court. “The good news is that we have managed to escape a defection decree,” he continued. “The bad news is that you have been held liable for the illicit smuggling of a civilian into martial jurisdiction.” Eastman laid the black file down pushed it forward along the desk-top. “The verdict notice was issued yesterday,” he said, after a brief silence. “It will be announced today, along with the sentence…”

  “Where is Duke?”

  Eastman slowly closed his briefcase and did not answer.

  Saul raised his sunken eyes and fixed on the commissioner with a vexed gaze.

  “What did they do with him?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I killed them.”

  “No,’ Eastman slowly shook his head. “The two corpses found in the back of Mr. McLean’s truck were the only viable evidence brought forward and his testimony against a martial of your caste is inadmissible.”

  Eastman seemed to sigh, although the blank, impervious expression made it hard to tell whether it was a sigh or just an unusually long breath. He set the briefcase on the floor and looked back into the sunken, tormented eyes. “Martial Vartanian, the fate of the child is the only matter that has yet to be resolved. Is she or is she not the only thing that matters to you?”

  His silence affirmed Eastman’s words.

  “They would not do to me what they will do to him.”

  “That is true,” said Eastman with a slow, impassive nod. “However, in light of what you yourself have professed to be of the utmost importance, that information will do you absolutely no favours. We both know it will not change your decision.”

  He wanted desperately to say something, he knew not what, and when nothing came he lowered his eyes again. Eastman was right. Nothing could come between them. Nothing. The fate of the only man he had ever known to be worthy of respect was a crime for which he would never forgive himself – a needless burden.

  After a long silence, Eastman looked up at the chronometer.

  “It is time.”

  Two Guards waited at the entrance to usher them into the hall. The dock was set directly before the Justice Bench.

  Eastman took his seat at the table for the defence, among a group of similarly dressed men and women. Across from them was the table for the opposition and, behind the bar, the galleries above and the benches below were full.

  He looked around with a kind of perfunctory mien, flowing with the usual choreography. When the chronometer on the back wall, over the bench showed 1500, a knell sounded. Everyone before the bar stood and the big double-doors behind the bench opened.

  In walked the justice: a tall, thin, feeble old creature, the long silken black and gold robe swathed about his frail stature like loose bindings on an embalmed corpse. He leisurely settled in his throne. The harsh, cadaverous face loomed over the bench and his dark eyes quickly surveyed the courtroom over his thin spectacles.

  “Case Reference: 16-345-26: UMC versus Martial Saul Vartanian.” The courtroom clerk pronounced over a speaker: “Court is now in session.”

  “You may be seated,” the old justice’s voice was a deep, deep bass. The usual long and magisterial silence followed as his narrow eyes assessed whatever was on the top of his desk. A moment later, the majestic voice resonated through the hall again: “We begin with the pronouncement of this court’s final determination.”

  The cadaverous head rose and the justice cast his gaze toward the table for the defence, then down again, into the dark, dour eyes of the martial in the dock before him.

  “This case has been problematic to say the least.” The justice’s voice slowed as his diction became more prolix, more godlike. “This has been, to our knowledge, the first time in our brief history that a martial citizen has managed to traffic and conceal a civilian child within our dominion. We suppose that, to some degree, we should be thankful to Martial Vartanian for exposing the weaknesses of our border controls with the war zones.”

  The justice paused briefly.

  “Martial Vartanian, you are certainly a warrior of great prowess, evidenced by the caste which you bear, and are thereby due all the additions which that caste merits. Nevertheless, even martials of the highest value are not unfettered from martial law. You have been the agent of grave misconduct that threatens the stability of our order and, as such, due reparation must be accorded … in the amount of three-hundred and fifty thousand dimitars to be paid as soon as the funds become available to you, if they are not at this present time.”

  The justice raised his eyes again and the stark, sunken visage followed after. “Now…” His voice took another abysmal dip. “We come to the matter of what is to be done with the child – as yet nameless for all intent and purposes of martial administration.” He removed his spectacles and the eyes behind them darkened to obsidian. “Before we proceed, we should point out that the only reason we are allowing this point the privilege of contention before this court is the lack of precedent pertaining to the question. The case for the opposition has already been put forward; they have called for the child’s transfer back to the civil world to do with her howsoever they deem fit. That does seem to us to be in the best interests of all involved unless, of course, the counsel for the defence may provide us with good reason to think otherwise.”

  The justice’s head rotated like a demigod’s toward the desk for the defence.

  “Your Justice,” Eastman stood and came before the bench, pacing across the dock, “no matter what becomes of the child, she will always be considered a former martial citizen.”

  “The defence’s point conceded,” said the justice replied, “conjectures as to what becomes of anyone once they have left martial jurisdiction does not an argument make before this court. So long as the child does not conform to the standards incumbent upon all martial citizens in terms of our rigorous neural programs, her continued presence in Sodom constitutes a threat both to our martials – a point made amply clear by the opposition in their reference to the incident concerning (The justice referred to his notes) a certain former Martial Celyn Knight.”

  “Martial Knight possessed all the hallmarks of a defector long before…”

  “Similar allegations have been made of your own client, Mr. Eastman.” The Justice cast his dark gaze toward the dock. “We must also consider that Martial Vartanian’s protection – even if that means protection from himself – is the primary scope of martial order, and allowing free access to this child d
oes not seem to us to accord with that purpose. Of course, we would be inclined to take your request more seriously if it had come with the additional proposition to have the girl cleaned, which…”

  “NO!”

  Saul’s voice boomed through the courtroom. A stunned silence was left in the wake of the echoes.

  Her… cleaned… by them. The fire beat up in his blood at the thought. He gripped tight on his seat. The veins on his hands protruded with vicious restraint.

  In the midst of the silence, all the attention in the courtroom shifted back upon the ominously mute justice, awaiting the reaction which never came.

  “Your Justice…” Eastman spoke, finally, breaking the tension. “Your Justice, now might be an opportune moment to call our expert witness.”

  There was a pause, after which the justice bowed his head, put the spectacles back over his eyes and surveyed the top of the bench. Next moment, the orotund voice called out a name which roused Saul to sudden being.

  “Dr. Augustus Pope…”

  He could feel the figure in pale gray stand up behind the bar. The ominously slow, calculated tapping of the heels sounded down the aisle and the figure of Doctor Pope himself passed right by the dock and up to the witness pulpit.

  “Your Justice,” Pope saluted as he took the stand.

  Eastman took his seat.

  If there was one thing that never portended any good; it was Pope.

  “Doctor Pope, you are Martial Vartanian’s appointed neutralist; is that correct?”

  “Yes, Your Justice.”

  “Within the limits of what the vow of discretion toward your patient permits, we would like to hear your professional opinion on the risks implied, should the appeal of the defence be acceded – and do keep it brief.”

  “Certainly, Your Justice.” The insidious smile skulked up the lines of the neuralist’s jaw.

  A due sense of dread swelled in the interceding silence before Pope spoke: “My most recent contact with Martial Vartanian was just under one hundred days before today … I can assure the court that I had not been aware nor did my evaluation give me any reason to suspect that he was cohabiting with anyone at that particular time.”

  Saul’s eyes widened.

  “Do you mean to say that your evaluation concluded that he was sound?” asked the justice.

  “So long as we are agreed on the definition, Your Justice,” Pope replied, “then; yes.”

  It was a lie. Pope knew it was a lie. But why?

  Why is he lying?

  “Am I to understand, then, that our fears are without warrant?”

  “Oh, I would go further than that, Your Justice,” the neuralist replied. “On the contrary, I believe that – provided the appropriate controls are put in place – this little experiment can be of great benefit to us.”

  The justice reclined his seat and gauged the neuralist with interest.

  “How so?”

  “Well, as you might imagine, my interest in all this is purely scientific. I am sure Your Justice is aware there are bills currently being drafted by the Senior Commission which would allow for martial breeding through surrogacy using the reproductive cells of higher-casters.”

  “…Go on.”

  “Assuming the laws come receive the approval of the Senior Council, this would be a significant milestone in our history: The self-sustainability of martial populations! I should think the rearing of our future generations is a task for which we should all prepare ourselves. At present, for obvious reasons, we have no data on the integration of children into martial society. This child could make for extremely valuable research in which Martial Vartanian might also prove useful.”

  Pope looked from the justice to the dock, eyes murky as frost on ice. Saul gazed back at him, subdued by the sense that it was all too good to trust. What possible cause could there be lingering behind those cold, dead eyes?

  The justice slowly nodded.

  “Witness dismissed.”

  Pope stepped down from the platform. He walked past the dock, down the aisle and straight out of the courtroom. As suddenly as he arrived, he was gone like a spectre.

  The justice pushed the spectacles back over his eyes and bowed his head in deliberation, and an agonisingly long hiatus preceded his next words, which he pronounced in the same resonating bass, without looking up.

  “The court accedes to the request for the child to be maintained within martial jurisdiction. Request for controlled access also granted, subject to terms and conditions to be elucidated within the next three days.”

  The gavel struck the sounding block.

  “Court is adjourned.”

  The justice rose and proceeded back through the double doors. The galleries started to empty. The SGs on either side of the dock marched down the centre aisle and through a separate exit while Saul lingered in the dock.

  The releasing sound of the gavel rung in his head and held him in a stupor. It was over – and so unceremoniously. He stood just as Eastman came beside him.

  “Where is she?”

  “Her whereabouts will be disclosed before the day is through,” the commissioner replied. “You will be free to see her then.”

  There was a solemn pause.

  “I trust we shall see one another soon, Martial Vartanian.” A clear smile appeared on the vinyl face. “Good day.”

  Eastman marched through the main exit and the courtroom emptied shortly afterwards.

  By the time the maglev reached Haven District, the sense of disconcertion of it all had not passed, even as he lay down in the empty bed and rolled into the small space where that missing piece of him should have been. He felt the urge to respite, but could not move to it. Not until he had her would the fire in his soul allay.