Requiem (12 page)

'I am granting
you reprieve! Can't you see that? Can't you see my kindness?' He
shook his head as he spoke. 'This world has been nothing but cruel
to you. It has starved you your entire life. It has taken one child
from you and poisoned the other. It has killed your husband. It has
given you nothing yet you cry at the sight of death? I know you
think I'm a murderer but.. no.
No!
That's not what this is.
This is euthanasia. This is mercy. We are all terminally ill, in
the cancer stage of civilization and I am the only one willing to
provide an answer – a final antidote from all this disease and all
this suffering.'

There was a red
mark on her forehead from where he'd been pressing the gun barrel.
He checked himself and waited for his heartbeat to steady before
focusing on what he wanted to say. If she didn't believe him now
then how could he ever convince her; or anyone for that matter?

'Before long,
it will all be right.'

'H-h-h-how...'
she stammered but, for all her anguish, could say no more.

He stared into
her eyes, not with malice or contempt but with hope that she could
truly forgive him.

'How long?' he
said. 'Not long.'

The kickback
was stronger than he expected but the warmth of another's blood had
become as familiar to him as his own. He could feel the small
droplets sprayed across his skin, tracing their way towards the
ground across the tensed muscle of his forearm. There always needed
to be blood, some kind of evidence connecting their deaths to his
purpose. The shot continued to echo through the empty warehouse as
her body slumped to the ground. The boy had stopped whimpering.

He had long
since surrendered the pretence of remembering their names. He
didn't even ask any more. He hadn't relapsed his sense of morality,
he had told himself, it was purely for practical purposes. Their
lives would always be etched into his memory, as individuals that
had taken part in the pursuit of the myth of happiness, names were
of no real consequence. It was a constant battle; walking the
boundary between the indifference required of his post and the
connection that must be maintained in order to keep his actions
traversing the tightrope of moral responsibility. He was no maniac
messiah, no self-righteous tyrant, and, contrary to popular belief,
was no warlord.

The silence was
broken by the sound of his boots crunching through broken glass. He
stood about a metre in front of the boy with the gun held at his
side. The boy's knees were bleeding from where he'd been kneeling
in the glass. He no longer held his hands behind his head.

He couldn't
think of anything comforting to say. The boy wasn't looking at him.
His eyes, fixed on the body of his mother, were already as lifeless
as hers. If the boy registered his presence then he didn't show it.
He took a step and placed the tip of the gun against his
forehead.

He mouthed the
words to himself. 'How long?' The boy's eyes met his.' Not
long.'

This time he
anticipated the recoil. The boy's head jerked back from the shot.
The whole warehouse shivered in response.

He walked out
into the light of day, felt the sun searing the blood into the bare
skin of his arms and chest. Years of searing heat had tanned his
skin and further darkened the large, meandering scars that ran
across his chest and stomach. What muscle he retained, although
well defined, remained incredibly lean.

He ran his
fingers through short, blonde hair before pulling the mask back
over his head. The filter covering the mask's mouthpiece was fed by
a small canister protruding to the side. It helped to clean the air
so his lungs didn't have to struggle so hard. The lenses were a
large and thick, industrial grade plastic, reflecting nothing but a
silver-black screen to the world. They helped keep the sun from
destroying what remained of his sight. The mask was black, heavy,
built of scraps of metal and leather. It helped him maintain his
objectivity. Whenever his humanity came knocking, it would demand
its removal. This was the way that balance was maintained, only....
it had been a long time since he'd shown anyone his face; perhaps
it'd been too long. Perhaps not long enough. He couldn't be
certain. These were the questions that filled the space behind the
mask, drowning and suffocating yet necessary – “absolutely
necessary” – as McCullum had said.

The abandoned
warehouse stood just beyond the edge of the city. As he walked, he
could see the old collapsed maglev track that had formed the main
western Beltway leading back towards the centre of Sinn. After
several minutes he was walking next to the pillars and rubble of
the Beltway. The thick, plain white pillars had once stood over two
stories high but now, shattered and cracked, they barely reached up
more than a couple of metres. The old track they used to support
lay at their base, piled up against them all the way back to the
city's centre.

Out of the
corner of his eye he noticed some movement. Donny, he suspected. As
if on cue, the young, wiry boy approached him from his hiding place
behind one of the concrete pillars.

'Sir! Sir!' he
called as he walked with a slight limp towards the Warlord. His
eyes were rimmed with darkness and his arms and legs looked liable
to snap if the wind were strong enough. His hair was matted and
coloured black. He'd been playing in the smoke stacks again.

'Don't call me
that,' the Warlord ordered.

'Sorry, sir.
It's just that... well I did what you asked, see.'

'I don't
remember asking you to do anything.' He was about to use his name
but stopped himself, not wanting to encourage any kind of
familiarity with the boy.

Donny climbed
up the pile of rubble that ran next to the line of pillars. He
walked carefully across the top, balancing on one foot and then the
other, keeping pace with the Warlord below. 'Well, see, you said to
me the other day – Tuesday I think – that if I wanted to join your
group I would have to show that I was ready.'

The Warlord
said nothing.

There was pride
in the boy's voice when he spoke. 'Well, I killed an animal. A
dog.' He waited for a response but there was none. 'It was lying on
the side of the road. It was sick. I think its leg was broken. It,
you know, it took me a while to work up the courage to do it but,
see, I think it's a pretty big step... I mean don't you think so
too?'

Perhaps I
shouldn't be so hard on him.

'What do you
think I do, Donny?'

Donny jumped
from the concrete slab he was standing on and onto another. 'You
help people.'

'How do I help
them?'

The boy went
quiet, pretending to look down one of the large cracks in the
concrete.

The Warlord
asked him again.

'… You help
them by stopping them from crying. You kill them. Bu- but you do it
nicely, softly... because you love them.'

'You've been
talking to McCullum haven't you?'

'Yes, sir. He's
been teaching me some things.'

'You need to
know that this job is not to be envied and never to be
desired.'

'Then... why do
you do it?' he asked, embarrassed by his own question.

'Because it is
the only way out of this mess. It is the only solution. People like
McCullum and I; we're trying to stop as much of this suffering as
possible.'

'Yeah! See, I
understand that. Stopping suffering and all that. But... that's a
good thing right?'

'It is.'

'Yeah! But,
well, most people don't think that. I mean...
I
do! I really
do. But most people... they don't.'

'How old are
you?' the Warlord asked.

Donny shrugged.
'I don't know, sir.'

The Warlord
guessed he was about eleven years. He realised for the first time
that there was something in the way Donny spoke that reminded him
of himself.

'What does
euthanise mean?' Donny asked.

The Warlord was
lost in thought, crawling through his own memories, like a plain
and dimly lit hallway, carpeted with knives and lined with faded
paintings. He thought to himself. In his actions he could only find
regret – necessary, justified, all-numbing regret. That the only
antidote for life was death had been a crushing truth to him.

'Sir?' asked
Donny.

He breathed
that truth every day, swallowing it as a bitter medicine and
dispensing it to those who needed it most.

'Sir?'

But there was
something more fundamental that needed to be addressed. He could
feel it but not quite make sense of it yet. Perhaps McCullum could
shed some light on the problem.

'Sir?'

'I told you to
stop calling me that.'

'Sorry. What
should I call you? Warlord?'

'Is that how
you see me?'

'No. It's just,
well, that's what they call you.'

'A title that
was given, not one that was chosen. One of the costs of continuing
McCullum's legacy.'

'So you don't
like the name?'

'They see the
end product of my actions and assume it to be something that it is
not. They ignore my message and in doing so draw false conclusions.
Unless causation is understood, unless my true intent is measured
and tested, then all their 'knowledge' comes to naught. All their
perspectives of me lack true context. Keep that in mind at all
times.'

Donny was
afraid to point out that his question had gone unanswered.

The Warlord
continued. 'If you're looking for a lesson then listen to these
words. And don't just try to memorise them. Listen to them and try
to understand, find meaning and purpose in them.' He walked for a
moment before beginning. 'Give me your tired, your poor, your
huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of
your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to
me: I lift my lamp beside the golden door.'

Donny nodded
politely but didn't understand the meaning of the words as he
usually did when he talked with the Warlord. But he recognised the
confidence with which the Warlord spoke and knew it to be the
truth. There was no doubt in his mind that the Warlord knew
everything there was to know.

'Did you come
up with that by yourself?' Donny asked.

'No.'

'Who did?'

'I don't know.
Someone's god, maybe. It sounds too good for a human to have said
it.'

'It sounds
nice. Maybe an angel said it.'

'Do you believe
in angels, Donny?'

'Sometimes, I
guess - when I'm lonely. They help me when I'm scared... Do you
ever get scared?'

'We all do
sometimes.'

Donny couldn't
imagine the Warlord having ever been scared. Even when he got those
scars across his stomach and chest, Donny imagined the Warlord
inviting such pain and crushing it in the palm of his hand. 'Do you
believe in angels too?' he asked.

'It's difficult
to find time for such indulgences. I'm too busy doing their work
for them.' The Warlord stopped himself. He could say more but knew
that he was probably the closest thing to a friend that Donny had
and if the angels in his head let him sleep at night then their
presence could be tolerated.

'I want you to
have this,' said the Warlord. He reached into his back pocket and
pulled out a tiny notebook. A crude leather cover had been stitched
over the front and back to protect the tattered pages inside. The
Warlord held out the book towards the boy as he walked. Donny
clambered down from the rubble and gently took the book from the
Warlord's hand. Donny tried to hide his excitement. He'd never
owned a book before.

'What is it?'
he asked.

'That quote I
just told you; you'll find it in there. Along with many
others.'

Donny leafed
through booklet, admiring the scrawled words written in what must
have been the Warlord's own hand. Almost every inch of space on
every page, including the inside of the covers was filled with
quotations; only some of which had dates written in the tiny
margins. Only some of the words made sense, words he'd been taught
during his stay at the orphanage.

'Remember what
I said about not just memorising the words.'

'Right! Find
meaning and, umm...'

'Purpose.'

'Right! Meaning
and purpose.'

They walked
without speaking for several minutes. Donny continued to admire the
book of quotations, brushing over its soft covers with his fingers
and tracing around its edges, familiarising himself with the shape
and texture. He looked up at the Warlord as if he'd forgotten
something.

'Thank you,' he
said.

The Warlord
said nothing. Donny looked back at the book.

'What have you
learned from McCullum?' asked the Warlord.

'Hmm? Oh, I've
only been to see him a few times but I think I've learned a
lot.'

'What has he
told you of NeoCorp?'

The boy was
unsure what to make of NeoCorp; McCullum hadn't told him much about
them. McCullum had only ever told him not to trust them but beyond
that, Donny couldn't tell if he was supposed to hate them or
not.

'Umm...' he
couldn't pretend that he had an answer. The Warlord could tell that
he didn't and so provided one for him.

'They are
unwitting idiots,' the Warlord began, 'caught between the two
extremes of life and death – striving for life yet heading in the
opposite direction.'

'Did they ruin
everything? Did they make it bad like this?'

'No. They only
make it worse but they are victims like us; just in a different
way... And how exactly do you know things have gotten worse anyway?
You're too young to even remember the destruction of Vale.'

'McCullum
showed me some old vids...'

'Which ones did
he show you?'

'The first one
was just a silent one. I can't remember how old it was but it was
of some of the places on Earth. Mountains and waterfalls and lots
of trees mostly. I didn't know the Big Canyon-'