Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet (3 page)

  
He raised the collar of his coat and flowed with the Sodom bloodstream,
averting the cold glares from the oncoming traffic.  Passing eyes followed
until the moment shoulders grazed in passing, his hand tight around the blade. 
Dregs were non-persons.  It was insufferable to the upstanding member of
martial order to see a dreg walking the streets of Sodom as though he was
anything more than the lowest form of life.

  
The congesting mobs squeezed up against him and he kept his eyes down and his
collar high, approaching the flow of the capsule lines -- man-sized bubbles
flowing through webs of thick, clear pipelines.

 
 One of the ellipsoid bubbles stopped and hatched open.  He flicked the cigarette
butt away and stepped in.  The capsule closed instantly and off it went,
shooting along the nexus of tubes, winding in and out of Durkheim and over the
metropolis streets.  A panel shone with the capsule routes laid out and he
dragged his fingertips over the district schematic, plotting the capsule’s
course to Milidome Plaza.

 
 At this time of the day, the capsule flow was fast and steady.  The dawn
skyline over Sodom whizzed past behind loose threads of fog; maglev highways
looping around tall spires, in and out of great man-made mountains.  The air
carriers lumbered high in the sky, shuttling back and forth from the warzones,
ferrying fresh armies of Sodomite martials. 

  
He stared into the dark eyes of his own reflection on the inside of the glass
bubble and stroked the bulging scar just above his collarbone.  The faded
remains of the martial seal – the brand of the UMC – were hidden behind the
lumps of scar tissue.

 
 He had no memory of how, why or when he had sold his life to martial order. 
It may or may not have been longer than 11 months and 13days.  He did
know
that he was not born in the martial world.  No man or woman ever was.  The
gates to the martial world were locked on the inside and sterilisation was
mandatory on entry.  All who come choose it, and the pledge to the global war
machine is a pledge unto death.

 
 The Commission cleaned you out as soon you were initiated, all records of any
previous life erased forever.  Even though no citizen of martial world could
remember anything up until the day they crossed over, the reasons were no great
secret.  Every year, millions of people migrated to the war metropolises
seeking fortune in the so-called “Free Martial Economy.” War was power.  And
both war and power were the preserve of the martial world.    

  
The capsule slowed to a halt over Milidome Plaza, in the great shadow of the
Milidome; the beating heart of Sodom.  Over the top of the mountainous facade
hung the gargantuan insignia of the UMC; the three-horned, three-headed beast –
a head for each of the Three Regions of the Covenant.  The immense hub of the
UMC First Region blotted out half of the sky and gobbled up every arterial
road, maglev rail, capsule tube, rhumb line and airway in the metropolis.  The
capsule hung high over the plaza and suddenly began to plummet, slowing to a
stop at the end of a long overpass, flowing back into the congestion of foot traffic. 

  
The capsule opened and he emerged onto Vanguard Bridge.  The cold autumn wind
lashed past and he raised his collar again.  SGs – the blue-geared gargoyles
from Sodom martial law enforcement – flanked the bridge; visors shut, guns at
their chests.  To the left, the global media displays were high over the plaza,
blaring with the latest martial media updates from the warzones.  The towering
screens usually reported something tending toward the decline of East Grid
power and the converse supremacy of western militaries, some political update
from the Senior Commission and the odd report about economic growth
interspersed with loops of wartech ads from the PMCs.  

 
The entrance to the Vanguard was in sight.  You could tell the increased
concentration of high-casters by their signets.  Contracting sections in West
Wing were ordered according to castes, and the Vanguard section was the zenith
of all martialdom.  Dozens of monitors showed long lists of assignments ordered
according to serial number, army quota, vacancy, assignment description,
contracting party and so forth.  Martials amassed, hunting for the best assignments
tendered to their caste. 

  
He crossed the threshold of the ingress into the Vanguard main atrium.  The
upper-casters traversing the halls seldom appeared without an entourage at
their heels, sporting the marks and crests of their respective guilds.  Guild
hostilities had worsened in recent months, but his arrival seemed to have
instantly united all in a sudden, common hate.  This was the one place where no
Sodomite would ever expect to see a dreg. 

  
The visors of two SGs rotated as he passed, then quietly shadowed him through
the corridors.  He dared not stop his march until the moment he spied out one
of the larger offices across the atrium floor.  Over the front of the office
doors a plaque read:

“Comm. 1
^st
Class Donald Clarke Eastman”

  
He sauntered up to the open doors and silently crossed the threshold. 

  
Immediately across from him, a man was seated behind a large desk, half-hidden
behind a translucent screen, not realising that someone had entered his office
until his nose started to twitch with the first whiffs of some peculiar stench…
with a hint of jasmine. 

  
The commissioner stopped.  An ageless face rose almost robotically, and a pair
of narrow, beady eyes peered up and surveyed him from head to toe, to head
again.  After a long, deadpan gaze and a protracted silence, the commissioner
spoke.

   “May
I… help you?”  The voice was an effeminate monotone.

  
He tucked his hand underneath his coat, took out a crumpled piece of paper and
placed it on the desk.  “I am here to apply for a contract,” he said.  “This is
the serial number.”

  
The commissioner gazed blankly at the piece of paper, then at the martial
before him, then the Guards outside the office.  He squinted to make out the
scribbled 12-digit code on the unfurled piece of paper and his head tilted
curiously. 

  
“Nova Crimea,” muttered the effeminate drone voice.  A glassy surface lit up
and the commissioner started fingering away robotically at the keys, eyes
darting from left to right over his screen.  “…Caste,” the affeminite voice
pronounced.

  
“First Tier… Ares,” he answered automatically.

  
The commissioner stopped typing at once and the beady eyes rose and fixed him
with a glare.

  
“PMC…”

  
“None.”

  
“Guild.”

  
“None.”

  
“Freelance… Martial identification number.”

  
He paused, and then began to recite, slowly:  “Zero.  Zero.  Zero.  Seven. 
One.  Seven.  One.  Six.  Six.  One.  Five.  Zero.  Eight…  Eight…  Eight.”

  
The commissioner’s expression suddenly became disturbed as he typed in the
final number.  The deadpan eyes peered up again.  “May I see your credentials?”

  
He reached into the sleeve of his coat and took out a faded black card with the
black insignia beast of the UMC on the back. 

  
The commissioner’s beady eyes zipped back and forth from the card to the man
himself and a glimmer of astonishment found its way across his marble face as
he slowly laid the card down on his desk.  “Martial Vartanian … We did not
think we would see you again.”  The office doors automatically shut, and the synthetic-faced
commissioner remained staring with an uncanny look of acquaintance in the unblinking
eyes.  “Do you remember me?”

  
“Eastman,” Saul answered, as though uttering the man’s name would conceal the
fact that he had not the slightest memory of ever meeting him before.

  
“They cleaned you,” the commissioner muttered deductively, with a slow nod.  “I
was certain you were dead.  Your old record was deleted just under a year ago.”

  
“Eleven months and 13 days.”

  
Does he know…?

  
“Please sit,” bid the commissioner.

  
He obeyed with caution. 

 
 The keyboard re-illuminated over the glossy surface of the crystal-top desk.  “Now,”
Commissioner Eastman continued, tapping away at the keys; “The Nova Crimea
assignment… You may know the call for tenders was issued by the European Bureau
of Defence.  Unfortunately, the quota for the assignment has already been met. 
We should be making the final settlements with the USE’s Defence Section later
this morning.  The only way we can allow your application is if we received
authorisation from the contractor; a certain Martial…”

  
“Elijah Malachi,” he interrupted, finishing the commissioner’s sentence. 

  
“Correct.”

  
“He told me to come to you.”

  
“I see,” Eastman replied with a vague nod.  “Perhaps the memo slipped through
the cracks.  No administration is bulletproof, you understand…”  He lifted his
hands off the desk.  The illuminated touchboard disappeared and the light from
the translucent screen dissipated.  “What were Martial Malachi’s instructions?”

  
“I will be taking command of the brigade for the assignment.”

  
“Have you reviewed the mission brief?”

  
“Yes.”

  
Eastman nodded again.

  
“Very well,” he said.  “I’m sure all parties involved will welcome the
leadership of one of the First Region’s finest.  I’ll send a request for
confirmation to Martial Malachi immediately.  You will be contacted via Nexus
once the War Bureau has approved your application.  I presume you still have
your cell?”

  
“I do.”  

  
Having no further business to discuss, Saul abruptly rose from his seat without
valediction.

  
“Martial Vartanian,” Eastman called out, interrupting his exit.  “There is one
more thing.”

  
“I know.  Neural evaluation.”

  
“According to your record, Dr. Augustus Pope was your assigned neuralist. Is
that correct?”

  
Saul stopped suddenly and turned back.  “Yes… Why?”

  
“He’s here.”

  
Saul maintained a silence, eyeing the commissioner with suspicion.

   “He
must have anticipated you.  Neuralists are very good at that sort of thing.”  The
commissioner gave a summoning look to the Guards outside his office.  The doors
opened and four heavy, blue-geared figures entered a moment later.  “Room 7773.”

  
The elevator stopped on floor 55.  Two SGs led the way and the other two
brought up the rear.  He followed through a dark, narrow passage, passing a
series of numbered doors on both walls.  Not a word was said nor a sound heard
save for thumping of boot heels echoing down the corridor.  He felt like he was
being led to an execution.  The possibility entailed no stretch of the
imagination.  He counted down the numbers on the pristine doors until the two SGs
in front finally stopped outside a black door; the number “7773” etched on a
silver plaque on the front.

  
Silence…

  
Seconds later, a voice came from the other side:

  
“Enter.” 

  
The door opened and the two Guards in front turned, then stood aside.