Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet

by Jinn, Bo

  “Third page before the last,” Eastman instructed.

  The neuralist skimmed through the early and middle pages of the file nonetheless. A number of minutes passed before he reached the third page from the last, an annexed report from the infirmary in Fort Gen, Kamchatka. His reading became more meticulous as the eyes flitted from side to side, then up and down the first page of the infirmary report, then the second. After a while, the pages dropped from Pope’s hands and the solemn visage rose.

  “A child…”

  Eastman slowly nodded again.

  “He overdosed on neurals shortly after he brought her in. He remembered nothing of the mission. It is not clear he remembers anything of the preceding days either.”

  “Overdose combined with post-traumatic denial,” Pope diagnosed rapidly. “Common among defectors. What did they do with the child?”

  “I don’t know. I imagine it was transferred to the D.P camp in same area.”

  “Curious…” Pope muttered, nodding. “Very curious.”

  “There’s more.”

  Pope laid the debriefing document down and refilled the two glasses again.

  “Go on.”

  “We checked his web history on the Nexus,” Eastman continued. “Vartanian has accessed the network a number of times in the last one hundred and twenty-seven days – every time with the same entry. He was searching the martial database,” There was a sombre dip in his voice. “… He is looking for someone.”

  Pope sipped his drink and hummed contemplatively.

  “Who?”

  Eastman did not answer, and, in the silence of his omission, the answer was implied. Just as Pope was about to raise the glass to his lips, he froze. His gaze became as bleak as fog and the glass slowly lowered again.

  “Vincent Caine,” he murmured in awe.

  Eastman slowly nodded. The two men remained staring at one another.

  A minute later, Pope rose from his chair and gave Eastman his back, setting his sights out, over the astronomical vista beyond the glazed walls of his office. The dusk had since ripened to a thick blackness.

  “Has this ever happened before?”

  “No,” said Pope, the verve in his eyes renewed.

  “How could he know?”

  “I don’t know.” Pope crossed his arms at his back, took a deep breath and an elusive grin surfaced with the exhale. A moment later, he turned back.

  “What do we do?” Eastman asked.

  “As little as possible,” said Pope.

  “I don’t know if you are aware, but you should be receiving a mandatory visit from him sometime soon. A minimum of one appointment every one hundred days – those were the terms of settlement agreed with the court after Nova Crimea.”

  “I remember.”

  Pope took the crystal bottle once again, keeping one arm crossed at his back as he did so. He topped both glasses, drank and examined his empty glass thoughtfully as he spoke: “Whatever Saul does will make no difference. One way or the other, this will be his last cycle. That much is almost certain. We must allow it to run its course.”

  “And until then?”

  Pope set the glass back down on the table. “We do what we always do,” he said. “Protect his interests as he alone perceives them. And, above all, remain silent.”

  Eastman took up the glass and downed the drink.

  “Understood,” he said.

  He then took his black case and stood up, leaving the debriefing file on the desk.

  “I’ll see you in four days, Doctor.”

  The doors parted and the commissioner was gone.

  Pope gazed back at the view over the city. His sights found the faraway district of Haven.

  C. 5: Day 588

  The water stopped flowing.

  Saul opened his eyes. The last drops trickled from his fingers and loins. The calluses on his hands had eroded over the last four months and his palms were like wet and dry sandpaper against the orbitals. A smog rose from his shoulders as he stepped up to the basin. He set the razor to a short trim and brought his face up to the mirror.

  His complexion had shed some of its former roughness and gloom, and the scars faded into the paling flesh. His hair had lengthened and snarled into an unruly mane which fell past his shoulders. The yellow stains on his fingertips, the dark circles under his eyes and the thin blood-swollen lines in the whites of the eyes had ebbed. He put the razor down, stroked his chin, took a deep breath and fogged the mirror with the exhale.

  A tray full of cigarette butts sat on the desktop by the computer monitor, a steady line of smoke rising. The main page of Nexus Database flashed over the screen: a complete record of every single martial in the UMC – anybody who was still alive, at least. Without successors or dependents, there was little reason to keep records of the dead. Access to the database was accorded to high-caste martials for the purpose of sourcing viable recruits for war guilds. He had become obsessed with the pursuit of a shadow, the name of the man who “no longer exists” (The words gnawed at his thoughts). But, that name…

  I know that name…

  He picked up the pack of cigarettes lying on the desk and opened it. Empty. Again. He compressed the cigarette pack in a fist and threw it aside.

  The sound of the big screen obscured his footsteps down the dark corridor. When he turned the corner, a shortened curtain of strawberry blond hair parted over a pair of bright, smiling eyes.

  Naomi was kneeling over the low table, more than a dozen sheets of unfinished sketches littering the floors about her, loose crayons and acrylics strewn all over the table-top. A pair of oversized dungarees hung over her little frame so that one of the straps kept slipping off her shoulder. Her hair had been cut to just under neck length.

  When she drew, she leaned all the way forward so that her little head rested on her drawing arm and the large, bright eyes rose vertically when he came beside her.

  “Look,” she said, and leaned back, removing her hands from the table. “You like it…? Lions are my favorite.”

  The little head tilted back again, surveying the mess of hair around his head with a wide grin and she twittered, pawing the tangled locks.

  He put his large hand over the little crown and the wide grin suddenly became an impish giggle. He stared silently into the wide, elated eyes until her laughter quelled. Then he sighed, and looked away.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  The little head bobbled up and down.

  Naomi scampered over to the kitchen and climbed up onto her chair.

  He opened the door of the freight chute and took out the day’s provisions and the light went red when the door closed. There was a pan full of rice on the stove which had been over-boiled to a pile of stodge mixed with fava beans and chicken stock. He thought to add a new dimension to her diet aside from the usual pre-packaged and dehydrated meals.

  He scooped up a measure and swilled it onto a plate in a runny gelatinous lump and, rather awkwardly, set the plate down on the table. Naomi stood upon her seat to surmount the table-top, holding a spoon in her small fist. She scooped the stodge into her mouth, and smiled at him as she chewed open-mouthed.

  “Is it…?”

  “Good.” The little head nodded.

  It could just as well have been inedible.

  There was a pack of cigarettes on the table. He saw her eyes follow his hand nervously as he reached out and opened the pack.

  Empty.

  When he peered up, Naomi quickly looked away.

  “… I know you have been taking them,” he said, as he peeled the cellophane off a fresh pack.

  The girl swallowed her food with a nervous gulp, pursed her lips and started to poke away ashamedly at her plate.

  “I hope you have not been trying to smoke.”

  The little head rose, startled.

  “N-no!” she swore.

  He put a cigarette between his lips, took the lighter off the table. A jet of blue flame lit the cherry and the smoke seepe
d out the sides of his mouth. Naomi quietly looked down and poked the spoon around in her plate.

  “…Daddy used to do it too,” she said, suddenly

  He stopped when he saw the little expression droop to dejection. He gazed at her, the cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

  “He used to do it a lot,” she continued, quietly. “But, one day, he didn’t do it anymore. Mommy says it’s bad for me … says it makes me sick.”

  The small voice and look of dejection that accompanied her words bled his heart. He was about to speak when a pulsing blue glow caught his attention from the corner of his eye. His cell started to ring. A quick look at the chronometer on the wall, and the four-digit number was 2030.

  He pulled the tray up between himself and the girl, put the cigarette out and pushed the tray aside again. He then rose from his chair and laid a gentle hand on her head as he sauntered over to the kitchen counter.

  He picked up the cell. The words “New Mail” flashed along the middle of the cell display. It was a commission memo. His finger swiped the “Open” key on the screen.

  The memo read:

  Martial Saul Vartanian

  ID: 000-717-166-45-45-11-150888

  Case Reference: 15-675-46

  UMC Martial Court Notice

  Neural Program – Mandatory Appointment

  Dr. Augustus Pope: Room 245-01, Milidome, West Wing, Durkheim.

  D-7 H-0930

  Failure to report to your neutralist for evaluation at the appointed time and place will result in full screening, possible caste reduction and a fine of up to Di.100,000, as per terms of settlement (please refer to case reference above).

  His heart sank.

  He re-read the memo twice more to see if he had understood correctly. A court-ordered appointment with Pope… The string of letters and numbers in the middle of the memo – “D7 H0930” – intimated that the court-ordered meeting was seven days from the day, at 0930.

  Naomi coughed, diverting his attention.

  He lowered his cell.

  She coughed again, then again with increase.

  “You are sick,” he said. “Again?”

  She finished coughing and wiped the rice and spittle off her mouth.

  “No,” she sniffed, “I’m OK.”

  Her skin was not the same sun-kissed hue it once was.

  He tucked the cell away, removed the smoking tray from the counter and doused the smoldering tobacco with water from the tap. Resolving to deal with the memo later, he scooped a portion of the quasi-edible glop and sat.

  Naomi stared at the front door as she twirled around the contents of her plate.

  “She will be here soon,” he assured.

  Naomi tore her eyes away from the door and scooped up another spoonful and ate.

  “Saul,” she spoke, after a brief silence. “Celyn never comes in.”

  He sighed.

  “I know.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is difficult to explain.”

  She looked away with a sad frown.

  “Is it because of me?”

  “Something like that,” he said.

  “I don’t think she likes me.”

  “No … I think she does.”

  The conversation briefly ended.

  A minute later, Naomi called again: “Saul … Do you like Celyn?”

  He was about to raise the fork to his mouth, but stopped with his mouth open. The question ran with his thoughts. He looked up at her.

  The impish grin had returned to her face.

  “You are asking many questions today, little one,” he said, with an ironic smile.

  Naomi inclined and took another spoonful of her food.

  “You know what Mommy says you should do when you like someone?” she asked, and, in the wake of his silence, proceeded to answer her own question. “She says you should give them something. She says you should give them something special – something that they’ll like. You should give Celyn something that she’ll like.”

  He humoured her.

  “Like what?”

  The handle of the spoon chinked against the side of her plate and the little face pouted thoughtfully.

  “Hmm… Oh! I know!”

  The little blonde head suddenly disappeared behind the edge of the table. Naomi climbed down off her seat and tottered over to his side with both her hands behind her neck, and there was a jingling noise as she pulled the long silver chain out from under her dungarees.

  “Here,” she said, holding up her necklace.

  He watched the large gold pendant swing from the little hand.

  “Take it.” She tugged on his arm until he gave in to her small force. “I want you to have it.” Her little hands pried open his fingers and put the necklace in his open palm.

  “This is precious to you,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. “But I like you…see?”

  There was a tingle of warmth when the little hands closed his fingers around the pendant.

  “… I see,” he said.

  “It opens up. Look.” She took the necklace again and the pendant was a big lump in her hands, then she turned the pendant over and started to fiddle with it. “You just push this, here…” she murmured, “aaannd… there!”

  There was a short, sharp click. The pendant divided and opened.

  He took the open locket. Inside, there was a picture of a man and woman.

  “Are these…”

  The smiling little head nodded.

  “Mom and Dad.”

  He wiped the dirt off the glass glazing and studied the picture closely. The man in the picture was dark with a ruggedness softened by a gentle smile. He bore the aspect of one who had seen war, and might well have been a soldier… but not a martial. He could not have been a martial. At his right stood a beautiful woman, with platinum white hair and eyes like blue gems. He saw in both of their eyes that same spirit borne by their daughter: the essence of humanity, indistinct, yet as plain as the high-noon sun, and equally blinding. And he felt peculiarly acquainted with them, though he did not know them.

  “I miss Mom and Dad…”

  He regarded the girl, and the teary shimmer in her eyes. He closed the locket in a gentle fist.

  “I cannot take this from you,” he said.

  At that moment, the bell at the front door chimed and Naomi straightened with excitement and made for the door at once. He took one last look at the locket, sighed and tucked it in his pocket.

  “Ask her to come inside!” begged Naomi as he approached the front door.

  He hushed her and stood in front of her as he pulled the door open.

  “Déjà vu.”

  Celyn stood outside the door, a full haversack hanging by her hand, over the back of her shoulder. She flung the bag at his chest before he could greet her, half-winding him.

  “Hi., Celyn!”

  “Quiet,” he hushed as soon as the little blonde head peeped out from behind the door. “Someone will hear you.”

  “Saul, give it to her!”

  The stifled voice kept insisting from behind as he held her back.

  “What’s she talking about?”

  “Ah, nothing.”

  “…Right,” Celyn nodded with a sceptical frown.

  He opened the bag and checked the contents.

  “Your man ran out of smokes. He says he’ll have more next week.”

  “It is alright,” he replied.

  He remained in the entrance, gazing back at her -- at the long, thin ropes of hair, bound up and falling over her breasts, which swelled over the crossed arms, and the emerald glow of her eyes, and the caramel lips, and the thin battle-scars peeping out through the bare skin. The jasmine smell loosened him like an opiate.

  She looked at him askance.

  “Is everything alright?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, the door opened and the little blonde head popped out again.

  “We’re having dinner
wan’a come in?”

  The abrupt question was rapid, catching both of them unaware. Naomi tottered over the threshold before he could stop her and stepped up to Celyn, who looked back down, subdued by two large, pleading, upturned eyes.

  “Saul, can Celyn stay?”

  He looked from her to Celyn and back.

  “Ah…” he hummed and dug his fingers nervously into the hair on the back of his neck. “Only if she wants…”

  “No,” Celyn blurted immediately, eyes flashing.

  “Celyn?”

  The pleading eyes looked up again. Naomi came nearer to her and tilted her head all the way back.

  “Please…” she begged.

  Like a rapt bird, Celyn’s head tipped to one side. He saw a curious smile tremble on the corners of her mouth. Naomi beamed happily and grabbed hold of her fingertips and the next moment, Celyn moseyed right past him.

  Naomi scampered back into the kitchen, climbed back up onto her seat and stuffed another spoonful of starchy rice in her mouth. He shut the door and came near them, silently observing. Celyn stood in the middle of the room, quiet as a misplaced soul, and her eyes would not yield from Naomi. She appeared diminished, seized by some paralysing force roused by the girl’s touch. As soon as he sat down, Naomi dropped her spoon into her plate and climbed off her seat.

  “I’m full,” she announced suddenly, then scuttled off to the living area before either of them could say a word.

  He watched Celyn follow her with mesmerised eyes, and then, seeming to feel his stare, she looked away and nervously cleared her throat.

  “You can sit,” he said, after a long pause.

  It was awhile before she did.

  He scooped a portion of rice onto a plate and set it before her before it could occur to him that he might have been better off not giving her anything. She studied the contents of the plate dubiously before taking a fork and putting four grains of rice in her mouth, chewing through a suppressed grimace.

  “So,” he began, slightly discomfited, “any news?”

  She was slow with her answer.

  “Not much,” she said, and paused. “I heard the Scythe disbanded a few days ago”