Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet (7 page)

  
“It is a chance I will have to take,” he said.

  
The conversation came to a stop and another protracted silence hung between
them.  He could already sense the first and most obvious consideration emerge
amid their silence: whether or not it might be a better idea at that point to cancel
the contract and, having reckoned everything in advance, he knew -- as Malachi
knew -- that that would be bound to irritate their clients at the European Defence
Section.  He could almost hear the soundless deliberation unfold.

  
“Obviously, you have a lot to consider,” he said.  “I will be outside.” 

  
He turned away and their eyes followed him as he sauntered out of the room. 

  
He already knew exactly how the deliberation would proceed in his absence,
having innumerably replayed every possible way the scenario could unfold to its
inevitable conclusion since he had first come upon Elijah Malachi of the Scythe
Guild more than a month ago.  Within five minutes of their first conversation,
he had had Malachi figured out as the type of martial very easily lured by the
possibility of attracting an Ares-caster into his circle of associates. 

  
The sting of cognitive dissonance will subside, he thought, as he stepped out
onto the edge of the rooftop terrace, overlooking the Dragon.  After that,
Malachi would do what all men of his kind do: weigh the risks and see that he
stood to lose a lot more by rescinding the contract so close the assignment
date.  If the slightly more drastic measure of his assassination was considered,
the penalty for killing a high-caster in cold blood entailed no less than
allowing him to flee under the pretension that he was dead, and there was as
much risk of the Commission finding out either way.

  
He puffed away at his cigarette and gazed wistfully down the Dragon and up at
the Milidome, resolute that the next time he walked into the jaws of the
three-headed beast, it would be for the last time.  Malachi’s words rung
disturbingly in his head.
“They always find out…”
 

  
His thoughts were interrupted by a stir below, which seemed to have been caused
by a dreg that had wandered out from the dark backstreets and stumbled into the
light of the Dragon.  The dreg stumbled weakly to the floor.  There were
cackles and three martials appeared from the dark and surrounded him.  They
lashed out with low kicks to his legs, knocking the dreg over on his back, then
driving their shins into his gut over and over again. 

  
Just as the anger started to bubble up, a firm hand seized him by the shoulder
and nipped his rapidly rising fury at the bud. 

  
“What are you doing?”

  
Celyn came up quietly by his side, arms crossed, showing no sign of discomfort
when the frigid breeze lashed against her sending the long weaves of hair
swaying.  She looked away and took out the black neural canister.  He followed
her movements through the corners of his eyes as she popped open the lid and
rolled three tablets into her hand.  “You know,” she said, cocking her head
back and gulping the tablet down, “the last time I saw you, I knew you had lost
it...”

  
“Then, why are you here?”

  
“I told them I’d try and talk some sense into you.”

  
“You are wasting your time.”

  
“Fine,” she said, tucking the canister back in her coat.  “At least tell us the
reason.”

  
“What difference does it make whether or not you know my reasons?”

  
“Maybe I care.”

  
“That is impossible,” he said.  “Neurals erase empathy.”

  
“And that’s the way it has to be,” came the rejoinder.  “Look, you and I both
know the only reason you’re putting yourself through this is because you’re off
the program.  Every damn martial in this city is out there killing and dying,
trying to get what you have.  You’re putting yourself through hell.  And for
what?”

  
A pause ensued wherein the stumbling dreg on the Dragon had now come to his
feet and attracted more laughing and taunting from passersby.  He was struck on
the face and knocked down again.  SGs stood by and watched, making no attempt
to intervene.  The laughs and hisses of the leering mob surrounding the dreg
became bawls of bloodlust.  They had kicked and beaten him until he was a
twitching mound of raw flesh and bone, blood leaking from his gob and nostrils.
Finally, when the dreg could do naught except prop his weight up on his hands
and knees, three blades shimmered in the light, brandished in raised fists. 
The blades came down and stabbed.  There were thick spurts of red, then they
rose and banged down again, tearing through his back, neck, chest and gut.  The
pierced and punctured dreg writhed, twisted, choked, drowning on his own blood
until the last twitches of life left him.  When the thrill of his destruction
subsided and his killers and onlookers walked away, the Guards came forward and
hauled the torn pile of flesh away.

  
When it all ended, Saul dropped the smoldering cigarette butt and stamped the
cherry out under his heel.  When the trail of smoky fog parted his lips, he
raised his collar.  By then, Celyn’s eyes were fixed, unblinking, over the spot
where the whole scene had unfolded.  And as she gazed at the bloody puddle left
in the dreg’s wake, Saul turned and walked away.

  
“Tell Malachi to call me once he has made his decision.”

  
The steel walls hummed.  Cold air funnelled in through the ventilation ducts. 
The corners of his book shone yellow under the pale light, where the pages had
been stained by tar and nicotine.  He had smoked through the whole carton of
Lucky Strikes and started his second reading of
United Martial Covenant and
the Birth of New World Order
.  It did not take him long to realise that he
was reading things he had merely forgotten that he already knew.  With each
line of text, his mind seemed to precede his eyes.  It made him wonder whether
memories could rekindle through experience the same way.  Only time would tell...

  
He turned the yellowing sheets forward to page 213.  The title at the top of
the page read:

“Chapter
12: A World Divided”

He
read, skimming through the introductory paragraphs, as usual:

The
formation of the Martial Covenant ushered in two major global divides -- one
external and the other internal.  The first divide was between the eastern and
western spheres, fulfilled by the signing of the East Grid Pact two years after
the Martial Covenant.  The second, internal division emerged from the
promulgation of so-called “Martial Order,” giving rise to the soldier societies
known today as the “martial metropolises.”

The
proliferation of the free martial economy and the influx of Private Military
Corporations in the wake of the first skirmishes between East and West gave
rise to a vast demographic shift, as millions of people all over the world
turned to the martial profession (the first converts invariably being soldiers
from the national militaries).
¹
  A few short years after the
signing of the “Mercenary Act,” the headcount of private militias across the
UMC nations surpassed that of national military personnel.
²
Growth
continued to surge until, by 2050, more than 10 percent of the adult population
in the entire western sphere was employed by the PMCs, comprising more than 150
million soldiers.  Sociologists regard this period as the early formation of
the “Martial Class.”
³

In
the early years of the UMC, martials and civilians lived among one another as
common citizens of the nations.  However, a sharp increase in violent crime
coupled with the global media’s sensationalisation of events such as the
notorious Vincent Caine Incident
⁴
, there emerged a sociological
division between civilians and soldiers, a divide founded on fear.  Long and
arduous political disputes at the supranational level finally led to the 45
^th
annual Assembly and the passing of UMC Council Resolution 01-45, bringing into
effect the “Martial Autonomy Act” of the same year.  This marked the beginning
of political separation between martial and civil order.  Three years later,
the construction of the first martial capitol of the First UMC Region, Sodom
Metropolis, was complete.  Within the last 20 years, more than 25 martial
metropolises have been built within national territories across the Three
Regions, with five more cities still under construction.
⁵
 

To
this day, the “Principle of Division” between civilian and martial society
remains one of the fundamental doctrines of UMC law and politics.  Whereas
sovereignty over civil society resides with the governments of member nations,
jurisdiction over martial order lies exclusively with the UMC, through the
Council of Nations and their several executive Commissions.  This, effectively,
resulted in the formation of two “internal worlds” within the western sphere
itself -- one governed by the laws of the nations, and the other by the laws of
the UMC.  For the purposes of government, citizens of civil and martial society
alike were accorded equal right to vote at UMC Council elections, although
martial citizens are prohibited from taking office…

He
was about to turn the page, when two loud thuds sounded on the door.  He closed
the book just as the door slid sideways into the walls and daylight spilled
into the room, and a dark, silver-lined silhouette appeared at the doorway,
leaning at the shoulder against the door frame.

  “We’ll
be landing in an hour,” said Celyn.  “Better get geared up.”

  
He laid the book aside, shifted his legs over to the side of his bunk and
pressed his palms into his sore eyes.

  
“Did you sleep?”

  
He groaned deeply, answering the question with a bloodshot glare.  He fished
around the pockets of his coat for his last pack of cigarettes, which he soon
discovered to be empty.  He compressed the pack in a fist and threw it bitterly
aside. 

  
“Hey,” Celyn called.  “Nine o’clock.” 

  
A fresh carton of Lucky Strikes sat in the corner by his feet.  

  
“I stopped by to give them to you earlier but you were asleep.”

  
He picked up the carton of cigarettes and studied it closely.  There was only
one place it could have come from. 

  
“You know Duke?”

  
“Through the grapevine,” said Celyn.  “Never seen so many damn dregs in one
place.”

  
He nodded slowly, eyeing the fresh carton of cigarettes with suspicion.  No
random act of kindness among martials was to be trusted.  He looked down again
and noticed a half-pint flask which he had overlooked.  He picked up the flask
and examined the earth-brown liquid through the sunlight. 

  
“Scotch…”

  
“Your poison, right?” Celyn wore a sideways smile.

  
“Did Malachi put you up to this?”

  
“No,” she assured.  “It’s from me.  A parting gift.  For the road.  Hell, if
you live long enough to finish those smokes, you’ll have gotten further than
any of us thought you would.”  

  
“Thanks,” he replied, ironically.  He closely examined the top of the scotch
bottle and saw that the seal had already been broken.

  
“I took a swig,” said Celyn.  “I was curious.”

  
He unscrewed the top of the flask, scrutinized the muzzle, sniffed, took a
short gulp and exhaled.  “Do you know the difference between scotch and
ambrosia?” he asked, coming to his feet.

 
“One of them doesn’t taste like stale urine?”

 
“Alcohol gives you at least one day of hell for every high,” he said, answering
his own question.  He set the scotch down on the counter and started to get
undressed. 

  
“You prefer pain to pleasure?”

  
“This may come as a shock to you,” he said, “but people have more need of pain
than they do of pleasure.”

 
Celyn watched the clothes pry off his body and ogled his loins as the clothes
came off and the sunlight kissed the lean, scarred flesh.  “You… like to
suffer?” she muttered.

  
Hearing the distraction in her voice, he stopped at once and turned quick
enough to see her eyes quickly shoot up from his bare groin to his sober mien. 

  
“Suffering is not the same thing as pain,” he said. 

  
When he finished putting on his undergear, he lowered himself back down on his
bed and started tearing the plastic cellophane off the carton of cigarettes.

  
“Eli wants to talk to you,” said Celyn.  “He’s on the third deck, port side.” 

  
Her arms uncrossed and her shoulder left the door frame.

  
“Wait,” he called out as she was about to leave.    

  
“What is it?”

  
There was a pause.

  
“Why did you keep it a secret from him?” he asked

  
The tense silence sustained for a while before Celyn hung her head with a weary
sigh, presaging confession…

  “A
little while ago, Eli and I had tried… something.”  Celyn looked away as soon
as the confession was made.   “It didn’t last long,” she added, quietly, and
fell silent again – the sort of silence that suggested there was more to the
story. 

  
“Did the Commission find out?”

  
“No.”

  
“Why did you stop?”

  
“Do you have to ask?”

  
He rephrased: “Why did you start?”

  
She shook her head.  “Not a damn clue,” she said.  “I guess it’s like the
neuralists say... We’re born sick.”

  
“Do you really believe that?”

  
Another tense pause.  This time no answer followed.  There was an emerald
twinkle in Celyn’s eyes and a subtle smirk crept up the side of her face.  She
stepped forward and reached her hand out over the wall opposite the bed.  A
panel glowed and the seams of a recess appeared.  The wall opened, revealing an
assortment of gear laid out like disjointed pieces of exoskeleton.  “Get geared
up,” she said, turning away. “Third deck. Port side.” 

   
The doors shut.

   
Upon closer inspection, he saw the gear in the wall-closet was all pristine,
marked with the blood red insignia of his caste.  It was the same gear from the
wartech commercial he had seen the other day – another “parting gift” from
Malachi, no doubt.

  
His body moved independent of his will, instinctively piecing the gear together
layer by layer over his limbs and torso, until the elastic strips of black and
grey textile hugged him like new layers of sinew and
his front, back and
limbs were panelled with a hardened shell.  He squeezed his fist and an
exhilarating potential of strength filled his limbs like an elixir. 

  
He stepped out of his cabin and was braced by the helter-skelter of a miniature
city within a roofed, cavernous space.  The low rumble from the cabin amplified
tenfold.  Moving platforms and automated walkways ferried hundreds of
full-geared martials up and across.  Stocked armouries were being raided. 
Overhead, the roof of the place was long and conically curved and the sky above
was as immaculate, azure, violet and amber as the heart of an open flame.  A
fleet of Peryton soared at the carrier’s flanks, ushering them through the wild
blue yonder.  Vague memories of being flown out to the warzones flashed through
his mind as the conveyor belt walkway ferried him along the fuselage. 

  
From the descending platform, the earth below was hidden behind a floor of
cloud and the airborne leviathan plunged into the mist just as the platform
stopped.  The glazed walls of the fuselage went snow white and the amber light
of sunset was swallowed away, reappeared, then disappeared again in abrupt
shifts. 

  
He crossed the passage to the third deck, protruding out of the portside of the
airship.  A large demi-dome of clear glass proffered a complete panorama of the
sunset sky.  The deck was empty, all but for one solitary figure, standing at
the end, hands crossed at his back, sights set over the Earth. 

  
“Evening commander,” greeted Malachi without turning. 

  
He came up silently beside him.  The opaque, black glasses glinted with the
light of the setting sun. The two men stood in silence for about a minute
before Malachi’s head slowly rotated toward him.  “Sleep well?”

  
“No,” he replied, keeping his eyes forward.

  
“Nightmares, huh?”  Malachi hummed and nodded slowly, then turned his sights
back to the sky.  “That’s how it always starts.”