by Jinn, Bo
He raised his eyes again and the stark, sunken visage followed after.
“Now…” The justice’s 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 can provide us with good reason to think otherwise.”
“Your Justice.” Eastman spoke and stood.
The justice’s head rotated like a demigod’s toward the desk for the defence.
“The defence may state its case.”
Eastman acknowledged the justice’s permission with a nod and came forward, orating: “Your Justice, the assumption that the child’s transfer to the civil world would be in her best interests is frivolous. No matter where she goes from here, she will always be considered a former martial citizen and, like all martial citizens, it is safe to assume she will not be welcomed with open arms by her fellow civilians.”
“We do accede to the defence counsel’s point,” said the justice. “That said; speculation as to what becomes of anyone once they have left the martial world does not an argument make before this court. So long as she 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.”
“Your Justice, 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 does 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!”
The chains on his wrath had suddenly broken and Saul’s voice boomed through the courtroom and 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 and 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. What was going on?
“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.”
“Presumably, Your Justice, you are referring to the risks to my patient’s sanity?”
“Insofar as it affects his ability to function in martial society.”
“Surely, that is the very definition.” Pope’s answer sent a malign titter about the courtroom and the insidious smile skulked up the lines of his jaw.
“Your testimony, Doctor…”
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 which you yourself specified, 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.”
“How so?” The justice reclined his seat and gauged the neuralist with interest.
“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,” he announced. “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, and 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.
Saul stood just as Eastman came beside him.
“Where is she?” he asked, immediately.
“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, M
artial 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 rouse back to joy at the thought of being with her again, but could not move to it. Not until he really saw her – not until he could hold her in his arms again and ease the fire in his soul would he have respite.
It was precisely 20 digits to midnight when the cell rang.
He sat up immediately, having been lying awake, and reached over to the bedside table. His eyes strained when the screen lit up the blanks of his eyes with the promised dispatch from the martial court (he recognised the format). He skimmed through the message until he reached the very end:
No. 1,
8 Block,
45th Street,
Nozick District
He read and reread the address. He knew the place. The suspicion bubbled up again when he recalled that last malignant smile on Eastman’s face. Something was not right. He knew it. The cell screen went blank in his hands. He got up, tucked the blade into the beltline, put on his coat, raised the collar and walked out the door.
The maglev stopped at Nozick 5th Station. The cold front and the smell of rainfall blustered through the tunnel path as Saul entered the streets of the lower city. The rain showered cold and bitter with the brink of winter, dripping off the overpass, layering the path with a thick mist of shattered raindrops under the streetlights. Above was a moonless, starless sky.
His solitary footsteps echoed through the empty street amidst the pounding rain as he walked: head down, cold, drenched locks of hair hanging over the eyes shot with blood, coattails side-swept in the drafts blowing down the side alleys. For an instant, he perceived the flanking buildings as war-torn ruins in the flashes of lightning, and he was a lone ghost drifting among the dead.
After a long, straight walk, he stopped at a crossroads. A gleam through the falling rain caught his eye. The sign on the corner of the crossroad read “5th Street.”
He turned at the sign and continued to walk down the adjoining street, narrowed by the tall, dark fronts of decrepit blocks on either flank. The water began to gush back up from the gutters through the grates in sewage streams fouling the air. About a hundred yards on, he stopped again, and remained standing in the middle of the street. He lifted his head over his right shoulder and across the road where -- slotted between two high blocks like a doorstop -- stood a terraced low-rise about 10 stories lightless windows and a façade streaked with the black murk of aerial pollution. A bolt of lightning split the dark sky from east to west and the white flash lit up the stained tablet by the black doors of the front entrance. The inscription on the tablet was a number “8”.
Thunder cracked an instant after the lightning.
For a long while, he was rooted to the ground, glowering at the ill-omened façade and when the rain began to drum down with fresh vigor, he sauntered across the street and up to the doors. The heavy, malfunctioning doors were separated by a small gap, into which he slipped both hands. He pried the doors with all his force until they gave and opened into a pitch black corridor. Another bolt of lightning flashed just as the doors parted and, in the break of light, a door appeared at the end.
His first step into the dark was marked by thunder and he sidled through leaving a trail of water in his path. The septic air was supplanted with the smell of neglect which became stronger and stronger as he came up to the door, whereupon another flash of lightning bore a number ‘1’ etched onto the door’s veneer.
He stood before the door a solemn minute before raising a closed, two-knuckled hand. He knocked three times and each knock sent a churn through the swelling cauldron of dread in his gut. He waited for the sounds of footsteps on the other side.
Nothing came.
Then, without warning, the locks clicked.
The door opened, and a jolt like the instant before death shot through him when a phantom figure appeared through the frail light in the doorway. A head, level with his, stood upon a form draped in shadows and eyes like the blanks of quasars swallowed him into their gaze.
The figure was an aged man, with an old, deathly grey visage, fraught with the lines of eons, though his features were strong. His hair was thick, fraying tresses of silver, and a black garb shrouded his frame from neck to toe.
The grey figure stood, silent and austere.
He had no idea who this strange figure was, but there was an uncanny sense that he should have known. He waited, expecting him to speak first, which he didn’t. The man simply stood in the doorway, not a shadow of surprise or fear expressed in him, nor a word spoken.
“I am sorry,” he said. “…I have come to the wrong place.”
Just as he turned, the figure in black spoke:
“You are in the right place.”
A roll of thunder followed his words. He pulled open the door, turned and walked away.
Saul lingered alone before the threshold awhile before reasoning away his caution. With a sense of impending oblivion, he crossed over the brink of the entrance, coming into a narrow passage only slightly less dark than the outside.
The air suddenly warmed and was pervaded with a strange, yet pleasing, scent which he did not recognise. A staircase ascended to an upper floor, occupying most of the space in the passage. He noticed his shadow swaying against the barren walls, and when he looked down the passage he saw the place was lit entirely by little flaming wicks sticking out of homespun waxen blocks of varying size and shape.
A draft drew the door shut, snuffing out the two candles nearest the entrance.
The cassocked figure stood just within the reaches of the light. His head was bowed and the shadows shimmered over the strong lines of his feature. His hands hung idle at his sides, concealed behind the sleeves of his robe.
“You may leave your coat at the door,” he said, with a low murmur.
“Where is Naomi?” Saul demanded, as though suddenly woken from a trance.
The man in black was slow in his response.
“She is in her room… It is late. She is sleeping. It’s best not to wake her…”
“I want to see her.”
The graying man raised his head, and the dark, dark eyes came into the light.
“You will,” he assured with a bow. “First, we must talk. Please. It is important.”
Saul glowered back. Even though it was yet too early to tell whether he was to be trusted, he felt a peculiar reluctance to refuse. A puddle of water had formed beneath his feet and he removed the soaking coat and left it at the foot of the stairs in a bundle.
“This way…”
The figure in black turned and drifted down the dark corridor. A pale, vascular hand reached out from the sleeve, seizing upon one of the candles.
He watched the spectral being disappear through an open doorway before following down the candlelit passage, through an open door and into small room. A solitary flame hovered over a low table set in the middle. The candlelight gilded two chairs set on either side. Strange ornaments the likes of which he had never seen hung upon decayed walls.
As soon as he walked in, the door behind him slid shut with a sharp click.
“Sit,” bid the figure in black as he walked past him from behind and settled into the seat on the right.
He delayed momentarily before coming forward and lowering into the chair opposite. For a long time the dead silence was disturbed only by the faint and intermittent resonances of thunder from the outside. He looked up at the figure in black. Two flames danced in the blacks of his eyes, and the austere silence endured a long while before he finally spoke: “Naomi has said a lot about you.”
His tenor was something between a murmur and a whisper and his lips barely moved when he spoke. “It was a while bef
ore she could bring herself to speak. She was lost and terrified in the beginning. She would not eat. She would not sleep. She would not leave her room. I would hear her crying through the day and through the night…”
“Who are you?” he interrupted suddenly.
The unknown man fell silent and his eyes shut. The wasted head tilted all the way back with a deep breath and the veins and sinews of his neck swelled.
“Who am I?” he exhaled, bowing his head again. “That is a fine question … I assume the answer you want is a name. Of course, you must know, a name would not answer your question, even if I had one.”
“If the Commission knows you, you must have a name.”
“I am sure they have many, and they are free to call me what they will. Names are repositories of the past; they mean nothing in this place.”
There was a disturbing sapience about the man’s demeanor.
“What are you, then?” Saul rephrased.
“A more answerable question…” The figure in black nodded and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. ‘I suppose it would depend on whom you asked and, since you are asking me… ‘hermit’ is probably as good a word as any.”
“Hermit,” Saul repeated. “…What does that mean?”
“A voice,” the hermit answered succinctly. “A lone voice, weeping in the wilderness. Not too different from you.”
“Me?”
“Yes … You.
“What do you know about me?”
“Oh, I know all about you, Saul.” The flames in the hermit’s eyes flashed. His pale hand rose, and when the sleeve drew back from over his arm, the candlelight shone over the distinct lines of the faded signets. Their colour was a stonewashed blood-red. “You might say I’ve known you… your whole life.”
He watched the raised hand grip the collar of the cassock and pull it down to reveal the faded three-horned, three-headed beast of the martial seal, just over the collarbone. On closer look, he saw the seal was not faded by age, but by a single scar that cut through, exactly the same way it did across his own.