by Jinn, Bo
The rumble of a fast-approaching train rose and smog kicked up in a cold draft. The old man lowered his eyes and fixed his stare on the small door across the street. The long, platinum hairs on his old head flustered as he took his first step off the footway, following his line of sight. A solid tap of his cane separated each measured step on the sodden road. A stray dog, huddled up for warmth, raised its head and followed the old figure with a deferential stare.
The young barkeep at the sink behind the counter turned up a steely eye when the door to his vacant nook opened and the ancient figure followed a cold draft in. The door closed. A young boy of dark complexion stopped immediately in the course of buffing a table and nervously peered from the old man to the barkeep. The media broadcast on the small screen showed the same live feed on every TV in every home and on every street across the region.
The door closed and the newscast became audible again.
The old man hobbled in. With stifled strain, he lowered himself into the seat nearest the door, clutching steadily onto his cane as he did so. As soon as he lowered, his head hung, his eyelids drooped and he breathed slow, heavy and tired breaths.
A long silence followed.
With a single look and a nod, the young barkeep instructed the young boy to go on buffing the tables. He took up a wet glass from the sink, poked a hand and cloth inside and turned, firmly in his grip and peered over the counter at the old man.
“Weren’t expecting no visitors today,” said the young barkeep. “Can I get you anything there, old timer?”
The old man raised his head and, looking forward, answered slowly, wearily and in a dry voice: “Water … please.”
The barkeep turned the glass in his hands and set it down on the counter with a clink.
“Ezra.”
The young boy started at the call of his name.
“Go on and get the man some water.”
The young boy hesitated, snatching glances at the old figure.
“…Go on now,” insisted the barkeep.
With dumb obedience, the boy dropped his cloth, and the old man followed with his eyes as he scurried over to the bar counter, took the clean glass the barkeep had set down, then disappeared through a back door.
The barkeep dried off another glass and set it down on a top of a stack behind the counter, snatching another quick and wary glance at the elderly newcomer. A subsequent rise in the volume from the small screen drew the old man’s attention to the broadcast from the Assembly House and the inauguration of the Eden Accord. The citywide ovation shook the ground with chants of “Novum mundi resurgent!” as a speaker took the podium.
The leaders of the Accord appeared, seated at the fore and the president-elect was front and center among them -- the crown jewel of New Eden. A vague smile curled up the sides of the old man’s mouth.
The back door opened again and the boy named Ezra returned with the full glass of water, eyes fixed on the brim for spillage. He stopped and held the glass out to the old man.
“So … you from outside the Capital?” asked the barkeep
The old man took three long gulps and set the glass down with a sigh of relief.
“You might say that,” he replied.
“A lot of people from out of town today.”
“It is a great day,” said the old man. “A day of freedom.”
“Freedom…” the young barkeep scoffed under his breath.
When he looked up, there was an unnerving severity in the old man’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I just have a thing about that word.”
“How so?” The old man took calculated pauses before his answers.
The barkeep set another glass down on top of the stack.
“Everybody throwing words around lately,” he sighed: “Freedom … liberation – or, my favorite – Novum mundi resurgent!” He snorted and shook his head. “I tell you. Sometimes you get to thinking these people don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. Hell, I know most of ‘em don’t. This one guy came in here a few days ago…”
The young barkeep went on at length, and at the end of it the old man smiled an ironic smile.
“I see you are not so optimistic for the new world,” he said.
The barkeep let out a short chuckle.
“I tell you what -- every old world was a new world at one time,” he said. “You look like you’ve been around long enough to know that. You don’t want to get me started, old man…” the barkeep paused and then continued.
“Na, see – me – I don’t think it’s even real. This ‘freedom’ thing. It’s all a dream – damn dangerous dream too if you ask me. Hell, it’s why these damn wars start in the first place … people going around thinking there’s this ‘freedom’ they need to fight for … Then, soon as they get it, they already get to figurin’ it’s something else and they start fighting all over again.”
The barkeep stopped mid-sermon and finished drying off another glass. “Then they call themselves ‘freedom fighters,’” he laughed. “Ah, hell with it. You probably think I’m crazy.”
“No … I think I understand.”
The decibel level of the broadcast rose again with a new climax.
“…And they all think this’ll end the wars,” the barkeep continued after the brief silence.
“You do not?”
“Hell no,” the barkeep exclaimed, setting another glass on the stack. “The old damn world is the whole damn world, and the whole damn world runs on war. This – all this – it’s like screaming for all hell to come our way. And it will, too. You better believe it…”
They were interrupted by another, greater climax.
The old man looked up at the broadcast. The barkeep and the young boy stopped what they were doing too when the pronouncement from the speaker sounded:
“Ladies, gentlemen, brothers and sisters: The president of New Eden!”
The President stood.
A thousand attendees rose from their seats with her and the cheers and ovations reverberated through the Eight Nations. The media’s lights flashed from aisle to aisle and gallery to gallery. She made her way across the stage and ascended the first step to the podium with a deep breath.
Chants rung out from Capital Plaza in titan drum beats:
“NOV –UM – MUN – DI – RE – SUR – GENT!”
She smiled meekly, bowed her head and raised a regal hand to the world, rousing them to a storm that shook the Earth. Her heart drummed in her breast. There was angst in adoration -- a galvanising of duty from which she would have gladly been unburdened.
Smile, she thought, smile, through the sustained hurricane of worship.
When the silence finally fell, she cleared her throat:
“Brothers … and sisters.”
Her voice resounded through the Capitol and the cheers exploded with new vigour.
“It brings me great joy and even greater honor to share this day with you all. And a great day it is. A day of providence. For history has never known a nobler cause. And the world could not have hoped for a braver, more faithful people, to rise to it.”
Another eruption of cheers and upwards of a minute’s ovation ensued. Their joy moved her to lamentation and, for a moment, the thunder of ovations faded into memory, When the storm allayed, she continued:
“To see you all gathered here today, in that spirit from which the bonds of our accord were forged, leaves no doubt in my mind that the new world is on the horizon. The end of martial order. The end of perpetual war. Though it may be many long years before we gather here again in the same spirit as this day: what a glorious day that day will be! On that day, and centuries thereafter, the world -- all the generations that are to come -- will know us. Our time is at hand. Our light will set the whole world aflame… never to fade again.”
Then she lifted her head and pronounced:
“Novum mundi resurgent!”
A heaving seism followed the proclamation of the motto, and the euphoria that erupted throughout the C
apitol drowned out the volume of the broadcast for a good 10 seconds. The lights in the little tavern flickered with the tremor.
The barkeep set another glass on the counter with a sigh.
“Ah, the President…”
“She is a good woman,” said the old man, looking up.
“The people sure as hell believe in her … for now,” said the barkeep. “But when the shit hits the fan – and when those martials come knocking – they won’t be cheering her name anymore. No, sir… Hell’s a-comin’ our way. A whole lot of it, too.”
The old man drank the last inch of water in his glass.
“What will you do?” he asked.
“I d’know…” The barkeep shook his head. “Might just move out of the region at this rate.”
“I hear many people already have.”
“Can you blame them?”
The old man paused and sighed.
“…They are fearful,” he said.
“Well, they’ve got a lot to be afraid of – Ezra, get the man a refill…”
The young boy rushed over to the old man’s table again and took the empty glass.
“You are afraid too?” the old man asked.
The barkeep paused with his answer.
“Maybe more than I should be,” he replied, and as he said this, he looked over his shoulder just as the young boy disappeared into the back room.
The old man watched the door swing back and forth before looking back at the barkeep.
“He is … your son?”
“Yeah, something like that.” The barkeep stacked the last glass and started buffing the dishes. “Ezra’s an exile – got transferred here from a DP camp three years ago.”
“His parents?”
The barkeep shook his head.
“I see,” the old man nodded slowly.
The barkeep’s eyes peered up from under a knotted brow.
“He’s had enough hell for one life,” he said, his tone sullen.
The boy returned from the back room with a full glass of water and set the glass down on the table with a faint smile. The boy stopped nervously with the old man’s intense eyes. He raised a weary, veined hand and laid a tender palm on the boy’s head, as though imparting something with his touch. The barkeep watched suspiciously.
The old man lifted his hand again and the boy walked off.
“I understand you,” he spoke quietly, after a brief hiatus. “I have a child too … a daughter.”
“You don’t say.” The barkeep stacked up the last glass and drained the sink.
“To be sure, she is not a child anymore.” The old man hummed. “You are a good man… A good father,” he said. “But, you must know the days are gone when it was enough for a father to protect his child’s life. Far more important it is today to teach. And the most important lesson is the hardest precisely because we are driven to protect.”
“And what lesson is that, old man?” inquired the barkeep.
The old man lifted the glass to his lips, drank, paused and answered: “There are things in life more important even than life itself.”
The young barkeep dried off his hands and chuckled.
Sounds like our president’s got inside your head too.”
“I suppose you might say that,” the old man smiled. “Tell me, friend, have you the time to spare?”
The barkeep regarded the old man with intrigue.
“What for?” he asked.
“A story,” the old man replied, setting his cane aside.
The barkeep seemed to squint, as though something vaguely fascinating about the olden figure that had wandered into his little borough was only just dawning upon him. He nodded, took out two short glasses and set them down on the counter.
“Name your poison.”
C. 5: Day 691
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 Commission 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.
Saul waited: a skin-deep silence, only partially sentient to the world. The blank screen opposite reflected back a shadowy silhouette. 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.”
He was unresponsive.
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,” he said, 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.
“We received notice of the verdict yesterday,” he said, after a brief silence. “The verdict will be announced today, along with the sentence…”
“Where is Duke?”
He raised his sunken eyes and fixed on the commissioner with a vexed gaze.
Eastman stopped again, slowly closed his briefcase and did not speak.
“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, this is the final sitting and the fate of the girl is the only matter that has yet to be resolved,” he said. “For the last seventy-eight days, you have consistently reiterated that she is the only thing – I repeat -- the only thing that matters.”
His silence affirmed Eastman’s words.
“They would not do to me what they will do to him,” he growled.
“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.
When nothing came, he lowered his eyes again. Eastman was right. It would not affect his decision. Nothing could come between him and the girl. 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.
“Now...,” Eastman continued. “Your instructions for today are simple: Say -- nothing … understood?”
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 oppositi
on 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. The justice 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.
The courtroom clerk pronounced over a speaker: ‘Case Reference: 16-345-26: UMC versus Martial Saul Vartanian, final sitting. Court is now in session.”
“You may be seated,” the old justice pronounced. His voice was a deep, deep bass.
Everyone present took their seat. The usual long and magisterial silence followed as the justice’s narrowing 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 the verdict, and this court’s final determination.”
The cadaverous head looked toward the table for the defence, then down toward the dark, dour eyes of the martial sitting in the dock before him. The justice’s voice slowed as his diction became more prolix, more godlike and obscure: “This case has been problematic to say the least.”
The beady, bespectacled eyes looked back down with a thoughtful aspect as he continued. “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 jurisdiction. 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 repute 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.”