Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet (13 page)

  
“As you might imagine, a great deal has happened since.  None of it good.” The
placid voice heightened the foreboding.  “Because of your actions in your
previous assignment, Martial Court has deemed you responsible for the deaths of
more than five thousand of its martials
and
the loss of the city of Nova
Crimea to the Eastern Sphere.  To say your employers are not amused would be
putting it quite mildly.”

  
Pope’s slim, sanitised fingers laced over his hips and he leaned back in his
seat.  “Predictably, the biological signature of the neuromedicines we had
given you thirty days ago are absent from your system…”

  
“There were… families…” he forced the words through clenched teeth.  “Children…”

  
Memories of Nova Crimea started to return to him: the collapse of the bridge,
the screams of the people falling into the gorge and the blinding flash of the
explosion.  

  
“I see…” the neuralist slowly nodded.  “And did your enemies share your same special
concern for their lives?” 

  
More synapses sparked in his waking memory: visions of the tanks trundling over
the bridge, crushing living bodies under their tracks like insects.

  
“All of the people you tried to rescue died nevertheless,” said Pope, starkly, “along
with countless others.  Nova Crimea now lies in ruins and the eastern powers
have expanded their territories into the USE boarder…”

  
Pope pushed the eyeglasses back over his eyes, leaned forward and spoke softly.

  
“You see, Saul; this is yet another of the many, many problems with the
unbridled
defective
mind.  This twisted sense of deontology…”  The
hollow smile reappeared.  “Everything and everyone
is expendable, so
long as it is expedient to martial order.”

  
A long, tense pause followed.  He gradually began to make sense of the import
of Pope’s presence.  He was not afraid.  He had had his chance at freedom.  Now
it was lost.  He had failed.  Presently, he did not regret but rather, welcomed
the reprieve of death which pride had never permitted him to inflict upon
himself.

  
“They will … execute me,” he muttered, almost hopefully.

  
Pope leaned back with a vague snicker. “Considering the expense of your
recovery, I doubt your insurers would take kindly to that.”

  
He was vexed.  “Internment…”

  
“Prison?” said Pope.  “What would be the point of that?”

  
His indignation escalated.  “What … will they do … to me?” he rasped.

  
Pope sighed deeply.  “Saul, Saul, Saul,” he repeated, shaking his head. “We are
not going to
punish
you,” he said, as though the very thought were
absurd.  “There are no crimes in martial society, only malfunctions… anomalies,
which, for the most part, can be corrected, sparing both life and liberty. 
Penal systems are so primitive, and, incidentally, repugnant to everything we
stand for.”  A gleam of uncanny ire reared itself in Pope’s eyes.  “You are a
martial of the highest caste, as precious to me as you are, indeed, to the very
stability of our world.  And we are trusted with the single purpose of keeping
you fit for that vocation.  You are our responsibility – in every way.  Hence
your failures are not your failures, but ours.  I, Saul, must carry the burden
of all of
your
iniquities…  Can you understand, now, why it is I take
such especial interest in you?”

  
The twisted notions and barefaced mendacities manifest in Pope’s words, boiled
in him like vitriolic bile.    

  
Again, Pope shook his head.

 
 “Hmmm… perhaps not.” 

  
He reached over to the tabletop and took the brown file.  The seal of the UMC was
on the front and, beneath that, the mark of the UMC Court.  He opened the file
and removed its contents. “This is your full debriefing and a transcript of
proceedings before the Ares Circuit Court, courtesy of your martial solicitor,
Commissioner Donald Clarke Eastman, who you may recall,” Pope explained, as he
perused the documents.  “Commissioner Eastman has managed to negotiate a deal on
your behalf.  Due to the absence of evidence, they have agreed to suspend your
hearing and, contingent upon success in your next assignment, drop the
indictment.”

  
Saul’s attention was suddenly roused.

  “What
assignment?” he asked.

  
Pope immediately stopped flicking through the pages and laid the contents of
the brown file aside.  He took the second, thinner black file, with the same
UMC insignia, and the mark of the Vanguard.  “For you to peruse at your
earliest convenience,” he said with an ironic smile, and slipped the file into
the slot at the side of the bed.  “Your flight leaves in sixty-three days at
precisely sixteen hundred hours.  You are expected to make a full recovery by
then.”

  
Pope came to his feet and put on his coat.

  
“I trust you will make the right decision…”  The computer tablet and the silver
cube were slipped into the inside pockets of his suit.  When the hands came
back out, they were holding a fresh black canister of neural tablets, which he laid
down on the bedside table-top, just within his field of vision.

  
“One more thing,” said Pope, as he was about to leave.  “Your term of tenancy
at Dragon Towers expired five days ago.  Commissioner Eastman took the liberty
of finding you another place to abode in the meantime.  The address has been
sent to your Nexus account … I am sure you will like your new home.”

  
The doors slid open. 

  
Pope left the room and the two figures in white coats re-entered.  As the mask
came back down over his face and the lights faded to black, the last anxious
thought that lingered in his mind was of where the nightmare would take him next.

BOOK II

DELIVERANCE

  
“Madame President.”

  
She was woken from her trance when the limo doors opened.

  
A gale of hollers and cheers blasted through the open doors.  The motorcade had
stopped.  The high façade of the Capitol Building lay directly across, down a
long, wide path bordered with armed guards, parting a fiery sea of red and gold
where the masses had gathered.

  
“Madame,” Shields called a second time.  “It’s time to go.”

  
The President suddenly forgot where her mind had taken her and looked away,
confused.

  
“Are you alright?”

  
“Yes,” she answered, “I’m fine,” but remained in her seat nevertheless.

  
Security men peered in through the doors.

  
Shields leaned over and counselled her in a low voice.  “The city has been on
maximum security for the last week,” he said.  “There are sentries all around
the perimeter.  No pro-militarists to worry about.  You have my word.”

  
“I know that,” she replied.  “I’m not afraid.  Just … overwhelmed.” By what,
exactly, she was unsure, whether it was premonition or memory… or both.

  
“Well,” said Shields, “you’re not alone.”  He gestured out of the open door,
where the masses roared, waving spangled flags and banners of red and gold.  The
fiery phoenix of the Eden Accord was speckled all over the plaza.   He extended
his hand to her, and the hand of help hung in the air for a while before she held
onto it.

 
 No sooner than the President emerged from the vehicle, a million voices
bellowed in unison and a million pairs of hands undulated at her feet across
Capitol Plaza, under the great red and gold banner of the eight-star-phoenix
swaying high on the face of the Capitol Building. 

  
She cleared her mind and braced herself for the mechanical route ahead.

  
The deafening euphoria heightened once the procession began, down the long
path, over and across the crowds.  Aircraft soared overhead from either flank
and blew thick vaporous ribbons of yellow and crimson across the blue sky. She
watched her own face projected back at her on two giant screens the height and
breadth of tower blocks, standing at the heads of either half of the plaza, and
she smiled and waved at her people from the high displays, and the mass
veneration assailed her with chants of: 

  
“
Novum mundi resurgent!
”

  
“
Novum mundi resurgent!
”

  
She soothed her troubled mind with thoughts of her beloved.  Her daughter.  The
day could not pass soon enough.  She wanted to be home.

  
The clamour continued up to the point that they passed under the lofty front
arches of the Capitol Building.  A red carpet marked their path to the grand
vestibule.  Members of the global media herded toward them from the aisles of
the foyer and the battery of flashing lights and camera lenses followed them
all the way through the immense doors of the Assembly Hall.  And as a thousand
Assemblors rose to ovation at once, all she could feel was the unshakable dread
of something vast and fearful looming on the horizon.

“
Are you certain about this?
”

…

“
Yes
.”

…

“
You understand, then; once you make this choice
there will be no going back.
”

…

“I understand.”

…

  “You will remember nothing.”

…

“I do not want to remember
.”

…

“Good…  Well, your military record speaks for
itself. I am certain we can expect great things from you. Rest assured. In our
world, there are no limits to the rewards of merit.  You will be denied nothing
– wealth, women, all the other additions of power and prestige.”

…

“Freedom.”

…

“
Freedom is a corollary of power.  However, since
your freedom has already been taken away, I suppose you will have little to
lose…

Is there anything else?
”

…

“Just one more thing.”

…

“What is it?”

…

 “What happens to Vincent?”

…

“Vincent … Vincent does not exist.”

 
 A surge erupted from his heart to his limbs.

  
Two unknown voices spoke through the awaking haze:

 
“
He’s coming to.
”

 
“
Give it to him.  Now!
”

  
A cold and viscous fluid seeped into his throat, causing him to swallow on
impulse.  His whole body lurched.  Some of the fluid went down the wrong pipe.  He
rolled over, coughing and gagging and knocked into something as he staggered,
sending a tray full of utensils clattering on the linoleum floor. 

  
When he came to, two men in white coats were standing in the middle of a small
sanitised room gazing back with some distress.

 
 “Take it easy,” said the older of the two white-coats.

  
It quickly dawned on him that he was moving and in no special pain, yet his
last memory was the image of his own ravaged and mutilated body half-encased in
a shell and wired to machines.  He remembered, vividly, the mask coming down
over his face and the cold gas filling his lungs.  It was only when he regarded
himself that he realised he was in full gear.

  
“What happened?” he murmured in confusion.

  
“You passed out,” said the younger of the white-coats.

  
“Is this Seragon?” he asked abruptly.

  
“…. Seragon?”

  
“He’s confused,” said the older white-coat.  “Better step back.”

  
“What did you give him?”

  
“Ipecac.”

  
He straightened up and pulled himself to his feet. 

  
“Where…” 

  
Before the next word could come out, he suddenly bowed over and heaved, spewing
vomit all over the floor.

  
After a half-minute’s retching, he held himself up with both hands against the
wall, spitting wads of acidic phlegm, his gut contracting painfully.  When the
retching stopped, he looked down at the brown puddle of bile beneath his face
and saw the cluster of small, round pellets scattered in the stomach contents.

  
“What… happened?” he panted.

  
“You passed out.” The older white-coat held out a water bottle.

 
 “Where am I?”

  
The two white-coats exchanged perplexed looks.

  
“Is he serious?”

  
He knocked the water bottle away and stumbled forward.  Seizing the younger white-coat
in a fit and pinning him against the wall, he growled, “Where!”

  
There was a stunned pause as the young white-coat’s feet dangled, barely
touching the floor, and his gaping eyes shifted back and forth in their
sockets.  “F-f-fort Gen, K-kamchatka region,” he stuttered

  
“This is the infirmary,” said the older white-coat.

  
Saul turned to him.  His frenzied breaths quelled.

  
“Kamchatcka…”

  
He slowly yielded, lowering the young medic to his feet, then staggered back
with a blank stare.  The first thing he supposed is that this was yet another
dream.  That he did not wake up a moment after the thought entered his head
intimated that he was very much awake.  “…Russia.” he mumbled in disbelief.

  
“Well, this hasn’t been Russia for at least a year,” said the old doctor.  “As
of yesterday, this is the fifty-first American state…”

  
“How long have I been here?” he interrupted rapidly.

  
A tense silence followed each of his questions

  
“You arrived twenty-two days ago,” said the old medic.  “You’re here on
assignment.”

  
He tried to recover some memory that would confirm this. 

  
“Why am I here?”

  
The young doctor shook his head in disbelief.   “He doesn’t remember
anything
.”

  
“We had that one figured out.”

  
“What is the mission?” he demanded with a growl and a daunting step forward.

  
“The mission is over,” said the older medic, calmly.  “You arrived back from
Dolinovka an hour ago.  Then, you came here.”

  
“What happened?” he asked a third time

  
“You overdosed on neurals.”  The young doctor nervously stepped forward,
holding up a black, empty neural canister.  

  
“You ingested over half a damn canister,” said the senior medic.  “Don’t you
remember?”

  
His breaths were suddenly cut short.  He studied the tablets in the puddle of bile
at his side, then gazed back with intense dread at the canister suspended in
the air before him, supposing that if he remained staring for long enough, he
might recall something – anything.  “Why… did I…”

  
“We don’t know,” said the senior medic.  “We came in and found you passed out
on the floor.  When we found the cylinder, we shot you with a vial of
epinephrine.”

  
He looked through the open doors opposite.  The air was temperate and the
setting sun shone dimly over the green and black mountains far in the
distance.  This was no Russian winter.  A whole season had passed since his
last recollection.  Perhaps the Commission had cleaned him. Yet, everything
before his last memories was still clear in his mind.  Everything between was a
void.  This, however, was not what disturbed him most at that particular
moment. 

  
That dream…

  
That ephemeral dream.  It was different from the other dreams.

  
“…Martial.” 

  
He was roused from his reverie.

  
The older medic stepped forward.  “Do you remember bringing anything back with
you?” he asked.  “From Dolinovka?” There was a disturbing solemnity in his
eyes.

  
Again the two medicd exchanged sceptical looks.  The younger medic shook his
head and took his leave.  When the automated doors slid shut, the older turned
back with a sigh, disquiet written all over his face.

  
The old doctor silently turned away.  “Come with me,” he said, exiting the
ward.

  
Saul lingered a moment, then followed into the outer corridor, stopping as soon
as he crossed the brink.   The old medic was waiting four doors down and he
cautiously walked over and stopped outside a closed door with a ward number
marked on the front.   After a long, wary silence, the doors parted.  The old
medic remained where he stood.

 
 “I think it’s better if you go first,” he said.

  
The guardedness about the doctor’s demeanour heightened his caution.  He peered
inside the ward.  It was lightless and appeared quite empty, aside from the
examination table at the back.  A feeble light shone through the doorway,
casting his shadow on the opposite wall.  Imparting one last sideways glower at
the old medic, he took his first reluctant step over the brink.  His flitting
eyes surveyed the room from corner to corner as, step by slow step, he entered,
keeping a close look on the doctor’s shadow. 

  
Not three steps in, a noise from behind caused him to twist round.  His vision
was still blurred and the back of the ward was hidden in darkness.  The
peculiar noise continued in terse, unsteady breaks, and he followed the unseen
source to the floor in front of him.  He slowly raised his hand and pressed the
switch by the door.  The lights flickered on. 

 
At the foot of the corner, there appeared a tiny figure clothed in rags, arms
wrapped around legs, head buried between knocking knees, shaking and
whimpering, and the frayed, grimy strawberry-blond hair fell down to the
ankles, hiding the little face, and a small, steady stream of tears flowed.  His
hand slowly lowered from the switch and hung dead at his side. 

  
The small head rose and the curtain of frayed hair parted, baring the small,
pale-lipped, olive skin face of a little girl, besmirched with marks, bruises
and dirt.  Her wide eyes were a pair of moonstones, shimmering, enflamed and
tear-filled. 

  
As soon as her little eyes opened, the girl stopped crying with a gasp and, without
warning, she rushed to her feet and scampered forward.

  
“
Kto … kto ty?
” 

  
He staggered back just as the little arms wrapped around his legs.  He could
feel the little body tremble like a quake, and her touch roused his blood to a
sudden firestorm leaving him mute.  When the shock finally subsided, he
stuttered again.

  
“
Kto ty?
”

  
“It’s no use,” said the old medic, entering the room.  “She hasn’t said a word
for the last hour.”

  
“Who is she?”

  
“You tell me … You’re the one who brought her here.”

  
He gazed down at the top of the little girl’s head.  Her clothes were begrimed
and ragged and her earth-brown skin was scuffed, abraded and soiled all over. 
She looked as though she had been dragged straight from the jaws of war.

  
“You said you’d found her wandering alone,” said the old medic, “on the way
back from Dolinovka.”

  
“Where is her family?” he asked.

  
“I told you. We don’t know.” 

  
The little girl’s arms closed even more desperately around him.

  
“She has a few cuts and burns,” said the doctor.  “You brought her in for
treatment.  But, as soon as you left the room she wouldn’t sit still.  She fell
off the bench, threw herself in the corner and started crying.  We came to get
you back.  That’s when we found you.”

  
Decontextualized, the facts made very little sense. 

  
He tried to separate himself from the child, but she held him tighter still,
desperate with fear, soaking his legs with her tears.  He stopped, powerless to
break himself away. 

  
“You’re the only one she seems to trust.  Maybe she’ll calm down if I leave you
two alone for a minute,” said the old medic, turning away.

  
“Wait…”

 
 “I will.  Outside.”

  
The doors shut and they were alone.

  
He looked down at the girl for a long minute and tried to break away again, and
again the girl held tighter.  He then laid a reluctant hand on her head,
seeming to intuit that it might calm her.  Moments later, the little arms
slowly loosened and the girl’s quiet sobs sniffled to a stop.  She stepped back
and regarded him as she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  
“
Pozalhuysta… pogovorit so mnoy…
” he softened his voice, more out of
anxiety than compassion. 

  
The girl fought for her breath, rubbing her eyes in torn sleeves, staring at
her shuffling feet first, and then looking back up with despair.  She did not
answer.

  
He whispered again, “
Ne boysya…
”