Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet (19 page)

  
“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.

  
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 seeped 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. 

  
“
D
éjà
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.