Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet (28 page)

  
A heaving seism followed the proclamation of the motto, and the euphoria that
erupted throughout the Capitol drowned out the volume of the broadcast for a
good 10 seconds.  The lights in the little tavern flickered with the tremor.

  
The barkeep set another glass on the counter with a sigh.

  
“Ah, the President…”

   “She
is a good woman,” said the old man, looking up.

  
“The people sure as hell believe in her … for now,” said the barkeep.  “But
when the shit hits the fan – and when those martials come knocking – they won’t
be cheering her name anymore.  No, sir…  Hell’s a-comin’ our way.  A whole lot
of it, too.”

  
The old man drank the last inch of water in his glass.

 
 “What will
you
do?” he asked.

  
“I d’know…” The barkeep shook his head.  “Might just move out of the region at
this rate.”

  
“I hear many people already have.”

  
“Can you blame them?”

  
The old man paused and sighed.

  
“…They are fearful,” he said.

  
“Well, they’ve got a lot to be afraid of – Ezra, get the man a refill…”

  
The young boy rushed over to the old man’s table again and took the empty
glass.

  
“You are afraid too?” the old man asked.

  
The barkeep paused with his answer.

 
 “Maybe more than I should be,” he replied, and as he said this, he looked over
his shoulder just as the young boy disappeared into the back room. 

  
The old man watched the door swing back and forth before looking back at the
barkeep.

  
“He is … your son?”

  
“Yeah, something like that.”  The barkeep stacked the last glass and started
buffing the dishes.  “Ezra’s an exile – got transferred here from a DP camp
three years ago.”

  
“His parents?”

  
The barkeep shook his head.

  
“I see,” the old man nodded slowly. 

 
 The barkeep’s eyes peered up from under a knotted brow.  

  
“He’s had enough hell for one life,” he said, his tone sullen.

  
The boy returned from the back room with a full glass of water and set the
glass down on the table with a faint smile.  The boy stopped nervously with the
old man’s intense eyes.  He raised a weary, veined hand and laid a tender palm
on the boy’s head, as though imparting something with his touch.  The barkeep
watched suspiciously. 

  
The old man lifted his hand again and the boy walked off.

  
“I understand you,” he spoke quietly, after a brief hiatus.  “I have a child
too … a daughter.”

  
“You don’t say.”  The barkeep stacked up the last glass and drained the sink.

  
“To be sure, she is not a child anymore.”  The old man hummed.  “You are a good
man…  A good father,” he said.  “But, you must know the days are gone when it
was enough for a father to protect his child’s life.  Far more important it is
today to teach.  And the most important lesson is the hardest precisely
because
we are driven to protect.”

  
“And what lesson is that, old man?” inquired the barkeep.

  
The old man lifted the glass to his lips, drank, paused and answered: “There
are things in life more important even than life itself.”

  
The young barkeep dried off his hands and chuckled.

  
Sounds like our president’s got inside your head too.”

  
“I suppose you might say that,” the old man smiled.  “Tell me, friend, have you
the time to spare?”

  
The barkeep regarded the old man with intrigue.  

  
“What for?” he asked.

  
“A story,” the old man replied, setting his cane aside. 

  
The barkeep seemed to squint, as though something vaguely fascinating about the
olden figure that had wandered into his little borough was only just dawning
upon him.  He nodded, took out two short glasses and set them down on the
counter.

 
 “Name your poison.”

  
The anteroom of House 7, Ares Caste Court: the small, windowless space, the
single desk, the two chairs under a bright pale LED light, the empty chair, the
door to the right, another to the left, the two holoscreen frames on the
opposite wall which were never on, but if they were it would have
unquestionably been some Commission propaganda.

 
 It was the 13h time he had been there.  At least one season had come and
gone.  During that time, he had taken in a kind of passive insight into the
mechanisms of martial justice, not least among which was the fact that the
martial courts were partitioned according to caste, and justice was dispensed
more equally among some castes than others.  For the law, like everything else
in the martial world, was a commodity earned with blood. 

  
Saul waited: a skin-deep silence, only partially sentient to the world.  The
blank screen opposite reflected back a shadowy silhouette.  When he raised his
head, the overhead light lifted the shadow from his features.  His face had
thinned.  The skin had paled.  The sharp lines of bone and muscle around the
jaw and orbitals bulged and the veins swelled. 

  
He heard the door open and then close from the right, echoless in the small
room.

  
Some vague figure walked into his line of sight, pulled up the empty chair opposite
and sat.

  
“Martial Vartanian… we meet again.”

  
He was unresponsive.

  
Eastman set his briefcase down on the desk and the locks clicked open with his
touch.  “There is good news, bad news, and … unresolved news,” he said, drawing
a black file, marked with the insignia of the UMC and the brand of the martial
court. “The good news is that we have managed to escape a defection decree,” he
continued.  “The bad news is that you have been held liable for the illicit
smuggling of a civilian into martial jurisdiction.”

 
 Eastman laid the black file down pushed it forward along the desk-top.

 
 “We received notice of the verdict yesterday,” he said, after a brief silence. 
“The verdict will be announced today, along with the sentence…”

  
“Where is Duke?”

   He
raised his sunken eyes and fixed on the commissioner with a vexed gaze.

  
Eastman stopped again, slowly closed his briefcase and did not speak. 

  
“What did they do with him?”

  
“Does it matter?”

  
“
I
killed them.”

  
“No,’ Eastman slowly shook his head.  “The two corpses found in the back of Mr.
McLean’s truck were the only viable evidence brought forward and his testimony
against a martial of your caste is inadmissible.”

  
Eastman seemed to sigh, although the blank, impervious expression made it hard
to tell whether it was a sigh or just an unusually long breath.  He set the
briefcase on the floor and looked back into the sunken, tormented eyes.

  
“Martial Vartanian, this is the final sitting and the fate of the girl is the
only matter that has yet to be resolved,” he said.  “For the last seventy-eight
days, you have consistently reiterated that she is the only thing – I repeat --
the
only
thing that matters.”

  
His silence affirmed Eastman’s words.

  
“They would not do to me what they will do to him,” he growled.

  
“That is true,” said Eastman with a slow, impassive nod.  “However, in light of
what you yourself have professed to be of the utmost importance, that information
will do you absolutely no favours.  We both know it will not change your
decision…”

  
He wanted desperately to say something, he knew not what.

 
 When nothing came, he lowered his eyes again.  Eastman was right.  It would
not affect his decision.  Nothing could come between him and the girl. 
Nothing.  The fate of the only man he had ever known to be worthy of respect
was a crime for which he would never forgive himself – a needless burden. 

  
“Now...,” Eastman continued.  “Your instructions for today are simple:  Say --
nothing … understood?”

  
After a long silence, Eastman looked up at the chronometer.

 
 “It is time.”

  
Two Guards waited at the entrance to usher them into the hall.  The dock was
set directly before the Justice Bench.  Eastman took his seat at the table for
the defence, among a group of similarly dressed men and women.  Across from
them was the table for the opposition and, behind the bar, the galleries above
and the benches below were full.

    
He looked around with a kind of perfunctory mien, flowing with the usual choreography. 
When the chronometer on the back wall, over the bench showed 1500, a knell
sounded.  Everyone before the bar stood and the big double-doors behind the
bench opened.

  
In walked the justice: a tall, thin, feeble old creature, the long silken black
and gold robe swathed about his frail stature like loose bindings on an
embalmed corpse.  The justice leisurely settled in his throne.  The harsh,
cadaverous face loomed over the bench and his dark eyes quickly surveyed the
courtroom over his thin spectacles. 

  
The courtroom clerk pronounced over a speaker: ‘
Case Reference: 16-345-26: 
UMC versus Martial Saul Vartanian, final sitting.  Court is now in session.
”

  
“You may be seated,” the old justice pronounced.  His voice was a deep, deep
bass.

  
Everyone present took their seat.  The usual long and magisterial silence
followed as the justice’s narrowing eyes assessed whatever was on the top of
his desk.  A moment later, the majestic voice resonated through the hall again:
“We begin with the pronouncement of the verdict, and this court’s final
determination.” 

  
The cadaverous head looked toward the table for the defence, then down toward
the dark, dour eyes of the martial sitting in the dock before him.  The justice’s
voice slowed as his diction became more prolix, more godlike and obscure: “This
case has been problematic to say the least.”

 
The beady, bespectacled eyes looked back down with a thoughtful aspect as he
continued.  “This has been, to our knowledge, the first time in our brief
history that a martial citizen has managed to traffic and conceal a civilian
child within our jurisdiction.  We suppose that, to some degree, we should be
thankful to Martial Vartanian for exposing the weaknesses of our border
controls with the war zones.”

  
The justice paused briefly. 

  
“Martial Vartanian, you are certainly a warrior of great prowess, evidenced by
the caste which you bear, and are thereby due all the additions which that
caste merits.  Nevertheless, even martials of the highest repute are not unfettered
from martial law.  You have been
the agent of grave misconduct that
threatens the stability of our order and, as such, due reparation must be
accorded … in the amount of three-hundred and fifty thousand dimitars to be
paid as soon as the funds become available to you, if they are not at this
present time.”

 
  He raised his eyes again and the stark, sunken visage followed after.  

  
“Now…”  The justice’s voice took another abysmal dip.  “We come to the matter
of what is to be done with the child – as yet nameless for all intent and purposes
of martial administration.”

 
 He removed his spectacles and the eyes behind them darkened to obsidian.  “Before
we proceed, we should point out that the only reason we are allowing this point
the privilege of contention before this court is the lack of precedent
pertaining to the question.  The case for the opposition has already been put
forward; they have called for the child’s transfer back to the civil world to
do with her howsoever they deem fit.  That
does
seem to us to be in the best
interests of all involved unless, of course, the counsel for the defence can
provide us with good reason to think otherwise.”

  
“Your Justice.”  Eastman spoke and stood.

  
The justice’s head rotated like a demigod’s toward the desk for the defence. 

  
“The defence may state its case.”

  
Eastman acknowledged the justice’s permission with a nod and came forward,
orating: “Your Justice, the assumption that the child’s transfer to the civil
world would be in her best interests is frivolous.  No matter where she goes
from here, she will always be considered a former martial citizen and, like all
martial citizens, it is safe to assume she will not be welcomed with open arms
by her fellow civilians.”

 
“We do accede to the defence counsel’s point,” said the justice.  “That said;
speculation as to what becomes of anyone once they have left the martial world
does not an argument make before this court.  So long as she does not conform
to the standards incumbent upon all martial citizens in terms of our rigorous
neural programs, her continued presence in Sodom constitutes a threat both to
our martials – a point made amply clear by the opposition in their reference to
the incident concerning… (The justice referred to his notes) a certain former
Martial Celyn Knight.”

  
“Your Justice, Martial Knight possessed all the hallmarks of a defector long
before…”

  
“Similar allegations have been made of your own client, Mr. Eastman.” The
Justice cast his dark gaze toward the dock.  “We must also consider that
Martial Vartanian’s protection – even if that means protection from himself –
is the primary scope of martial order, and allowing free access to this child
does not seem to us to accord with that purpose.  Of course, we would be
inclined to take your request more seriously if it had come with the additional
proposition to have the girl cleaned, which…”

  
“NO!”

  
The chains on his wrath had suddenly broken and Saul’s voice boomed through the
courtroom and a stunned silence was left in the wake of the echoes.

  
Her… cleaned
… by
them
.  The fire beat up in his blood at the
thought. 

  
He gripped tight on his seat and the veins on his hands protruded with vicious
restraint.  In the midst of the silence, all the attention in the courtroom
shifted back upon the ominously mute justice, awaiting the reaction which never
came. 

  
“Your Justice…”  Eastman spoke, finally, breaking the tension.  “Your Justice,
now might be an opportune moment to call our expert witness.”

  
There was a pause, after which the justice bowed his head, put the spectacles
back over his eyes and surveyed the top of the bench.  Next moment, the orotund
voice called out a name which roused Saul to sudden being.

  
“Dr. Augustus Pope…”

  
He could feel the figure in pale gray stand up behind the bar.  The ominously
slow, calculated tapping of the heels sounded down the aisle and the figure of
Doctor Pope himself passed right by the dock and up to the witness pulpit. 

  
“Your Justice,” Pope saluted as he took the stand.

  
Eastman took his seat.

  
If there was one thing that never portended any good; it was Pope.  What was
going on? 

  
“Doctor Pope, you are Martial Vartanian’s appointed neutralist; is that
correct?”

  
“Yes, Your Justice.” 

  
“Within the limits of what the vow of discretion toward your patient permits,
we would like to hear your professional opinion on the risks implied, should
the appeal of the defence be acceded -- and do keep it brief.”

  
“Presumably, Your Justice, you are referring to the risks to my patient’s
sanity?”

  
“Insofar as it affects his ability to function in martial society.”

  
“Surely, that is the very definition.”  Pope’s answer sent a malign titter
about the courtroom and the insidious smile skulked up the lines of his jaw.

  
“Your testimony, Doctor…”

  
A due sense of dread swelled in the interceding silence before Pope spoke: “My
most recent contact with Martial Vartanian was just under one hundred days
before today … I can assure the court that I had not been aware nor did my
evaluation give me any reason to suspect that he was cohabiting with anyone at
that particular time.”