The Heresies of World

by O. A. Beckett

  When she first saw Illyvia again, Kaeylor had been distraught, her cheeks raw from several washes of salty tears. “Ivy, I can’t let this happen,” she had said, more times than she could count. “Why didn’t you just go with Santor when you had the chance?”

  But Illyvia had kept shaking her head. “I have to do this,” she repeated, stroking her sister’s hair, “there’s no other way.” Illyvia had tried to remain calm and unafraid for the entire hour, although tears streamed down her cheeks too before their time was up. Kaeylor had quickly grasped that her sister was dead set against planning another escape attempt (not that they would have gotten very far with several legionaries, including the trigger-happy voyeurs from earlier, posted just beyond the bars), so she had tried to squeeze as much love and life out of the remainder of the hour as possible. They reminisced about their early childhood on the farm, including their poor father’s untimely and fatal horse accident, but also the thousand little treasures they had shared: hide-and-go-seek among the wild wheat stalks; catching figeaters and dragonflies; assisting with countless births of cats and dogs, cows and horses. They talked of their eventual move to the metropolis, and their first timorous social escapades at school. They shared stories from the years they were apart, and joked, commiserated, and gossiped about their small, imperfect, but loving family. Most of all, Kaeylor simply tried to memorize her sister’s face, every line and curve and crease, in the hopes of committing it permanently. She thought painfully of how quickly Bardon’s face had evaporated from her recollection, only imperfectly conjured back by the few pictures that remained. Ilyvia’s memory, she promised herself, would be different, held close to her breast and alive, always.

  Much too soon, the hour was up, and Kaeylor was hurried out and rushed back, by Imperial guard motorcade, to her mother’s small apartment in the city, where she was being confined to house arrest. During the invasive personal search, Kaeylor had had to deposit her personal effects in a box held by the legionaries. On the ride back, she was inventorying her possessions to make sure she hadn’t lost anything, when she discovered a small scroll of paper hidden in the fleeced-lined interior of her right jacket pocket.

  She unrolled it to see Illyvia’s handwriting. She must’ve slipped the scroll in during their final, teary embrace! It read:

  Kay,

  Tomorrow @ noon, the Civil War memorial. Find a way, for an old friend.

  Yours always, in this life and the next.

  Ivy

  In spite of all her pain and exhaustion, Kaeylor smiled.

  At every public execution, the relatives of the condemned were given a chance to issue a final appeal of pardon to the Emperor. It was almost never successful. In fact, as far as Kaeylor knew, a pardon had never been granted; certainly never in her lifetime. There were legends of merciful kings from the Civil War—benevolent patriarchs of the pre-Imperial principalities reconciling with, and pardoning, would-be challengers, usually involving a union of the opponents’ families through marriage—but these hopeful tales lacked any scholarly corroboration, and were almost certainly wartime propaganda. For these reasons, and more, Kaeylor had tried to convince her mother and daughter not to go to the “horrid spectacle” of the hanging. But her mother replied in the admirably stubborn way she approached all troubles in life:

  “There’s always hope, Kaeylor, unless we choose to give up. And I always go with hope.” And after a cheerless pause, she added, “and I certainly hope that if it were my old bones being dragged up on that scaffold, you’d go make an appeal for me.”

  “I know mom. I would, of course. It’s just that I don’t want you and Selenia to have to see it, you know. If they refuse the pardon.”

  But her mother would not back down, much to Kaeylor’s hotly-vented frustration. “Selenia will be scarred for life,” Kaeylor had protested.

  “Or maybe even the Emperor’s stony heart will be melted by her sweet little face,” retorted Violar. Kaeylor had huffed away, in a confusion of anger, revulsion, and grief. Now, however, she was thankful for the old woman’s obstinacy. Her and Selenia’s absence from the apartment would allow Kaeylor to slip away, if she could elude the legionaries and secret police, and make her way to the Civil War memorial. She would have to go on foot, since her mother would take the car and public transportation was too risky. But it was a long walk to the memorial, so she planned to slip out as soon as Violar and Selenia were out of the building. And now it was almost time. The little girl and her grandmother were at the door, well-dressed and solemn, ready to head out to the make their desperate, last-ditched appeal. Kaeylor hugged them both passionately, especially Selenia, who she held close until the poor girl became hot and antsy, and she had to let her go. Kaeylor didn’t know what would happen over the next few hours, or who would be meeting her at the Memorial, but she hoped like mad that this weepy embrace wasn’t “goodbye.”

  Now alone in the tiny apartment, she gathered the few things she might need. She was breaking out of house arrest, and if identified by Imperial authorities she would likely be shot on sight. They had long ago confiscated her stun blaster, so her only defensive weapon was a folding knife that had belonged to her husband. He had taught her some basic techniques many years ago; hopefully they would come back if needed. She put the knife in her pocket, and pulled a heavy tracksuit on over her clothes. Then she picked up an overflowing hamper of dirty laundry, and stepped out into the hallway.

  She quickly headed to the elevator and hailed it. There were legionaries posted outside the building, she knew, although she had no idea how many. But inside the building there was only hired security, and so far, none of them had prevented her from making use of the trash chute or the laundry room. Today, she prayed, would be no different. She would take the elevator to the next floor, and head to the laundry room for cover. Once certain that the coast was clear, she would head straight to the trash chute, push the hamper down, and dive in after it. The trash chute emptied into a dumpster in the parking garage. There she would ditch the tracksuit; disguise herself with the hat, wig, and glasses she had stowed in the hamper; and sneak out of a side door used by maintenance that emptied onto the street. She had gone over the plan in her head a thousand times, and she was confident it would work.

  DING. The elevator doors rolled open. Her confidence melted away. Before her stood a visored legionary in full riot gear, training an armed tranquilizer gun point-blank at her chest.

  “I just need to do the laundry,” she stammered, frightened. POP. The dart leapt through air and layered fabric, planting itself firmly between her breasts. The legionary grabbed her by the arm and yanked her into the elevator, then punched the button for the top floor. She felt a sudden wave of nausea, which passed just as quickly into a drowsy euphoria. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the floor. As her heavy lids drooped down she saw the legionary flip up his visor mask. She would know those eyes anywhere. It was Santor.

  She awoke at sea. She could feel it even before she opened her eyes. The craft she was in was small, and the water was irritable, making the vessel bob and sway deliriously. She sat up, and looked around. She had been lying in the lower bunk of a cramped cabin below deck, iron portholes lining the walls. Ahead of her, crouched over a small flickering telescreen drilled to a port-side booth, was Santor. She stood up, falteringly, as the boat heaved and dipped, and staggered over to him.

  He was watching Illyvia’s execution. She was standing atop the massive scaffold in the central square of the Capital, surrounded by a vast crowd, delivering the final statement she had been permitted under the plea deal:

  “Citizens of West Mundus,” she began, raising her voice over angry cries of “traitor” and “heretic” from the crowd, “I understand that I may frighten you. I do not ask for your pity or your forgiveness. It is true, there are many among you who have lost loved ones to my actions, and for that, I know, you will never forgive or forget. But you have also lost many sons and daughters to the cruelty of the Empire.�
� She paused. The jeering had died down. An eerie silence had overtaken the square. “Too many. You have suffered long. So long, perhaps, that you have forgotten what freedom feels like. But I am here to tell you that this dark era is coming to an end. The Glacial Wall at the top of World is melting, and buried beneath it are secrets your government would prefer to keep hidden. But they cannot keep them buried forever, and in their desperate attempts to retain their power over you, they will become increasingly bitter and cruel. Things will get worse before they get better. But I make to you this final promise before I die: when the ice wall is gone, a new age will begin here on Mundus and throughout World. Look for the truth in old, forgotten books hidden away in attics, and in whispers from the East—not all heresies are lies. And not all gods and kings are what they appear. The Empire will bring down its whips and chains upon you, but they will soon discover that people beaten into slavery have nothing left to lose.”

  Kaeylor could not believe her ears. She could hear it in the crackling broadcast, even against the soughing of the waves outside—a rhythmic clap had arisen from the crowd. It certainly wasn’t unanimous, or even a majority. But it was present, audible, rising in volume from among the masses huddled around the giant black scaffold. The Imperial Guards became nervous, and started pushing people back with their electric truncheons. A riot seemed imminent. An order was issued silently, off-camera, and the guards atop the scaffold rushed in. The speech was over.

  As they dragged Illyvia to the ugly noose in the center of the scaffold, she raised her left fist in a final defiant salute and shouted: “Death to all tyrants! Long live the free peoples of Mundus! Long live the Revolution!”

  Santor clicked off the broadcast, and buried his face in his hands. Kaeylor stood up and stumbled across the rolling floor to a porthole. She peered out at the choppy waves, swelling dark and ominous as Sol, the Great Reflector, dipped lower in its calculated arc across the sky. She and Santor were silent a long, long time.

  At some point she turned from the porthole and leaned toward Santor.

  “Can you tell me where we are and why I’m here?” she asked.

  “Can anyone?” he shot back with a wan smile…

  The End

  (for now…)

  Visit http://www.oabeckett.com/ for more stories in this series and updates on forthcoming titles.