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[Intake: let’s hope cockroaches never hold a war crimes tribunal]

I think this story is funny as heck. I hope you do too. It took me over 10 years to complete, but only required three quickly written drafts! Sometimes comic ideas arrive complete.

By Brian MacMillan, all rights reserved.

It all started on the Glitter anniversary of my moving to Inwood. That’s why I was wearing a hat made of strands of tinfoil. The rough kind of tinfoil you get with deli takeout. You see, I don’t have many friends so I have to make up my own traditions. That’s not true, I have more friends than you and anyone, if you include the Marimba Roaches. You’ve probably never heard of musical cockroaches before but I know all about them.

Let me explain.

You know the way cockroaches can teleport?  You swat at them but miss because they’re instantly somewhere else. That’s a clue. A clue that they’re musical. What do I mean? I guess that’s why we’re having this conversation isn’t it? For you to learn what I mean. Well I’ll tell you and don’t worry. My story is full of lessons about how we have to all learn to live in harmony. Not just with people, but with bugs too. Especially with bugs.

And the biggest lesson of all is that if anything is going to save us we have to listen to the music around us and sing and dance together.

What kind of singing? What kind of dancing? Let me tell you.

You know how you sit alone when other children throw stones at you? Down by the river under the friendly old willow.  I don’t know what you do when you’re there, but I sing with the birds.

What’s that have to do with teleporting cockroaches who play marimba music? Have you been listening to me? I told you – it’s about music! Sorry, that was a bit loud. But you are listening to me now, aren’t you? I hope you’re writing down what I’m saying. My words are full of lessons.

I’ll start again, to make sure you get it all.

I first learned about teleportation from a butterfly. I was sitting under the willow, singing with some birds. Whistling, really, but it’s the same if you think about it. Whistling is just singing with your lips.

A Bach cantata, thank you for asking. Well not exactly J.S. Bach. More like something he’d have written had he been a sparrow. It was a pretty song about our souls reaching out to God because of the beauty of nature.

That’s when I noticed a monarch butterfly.

His name was Butter.  While I watched him flitting about I wanted to catch him. Trying to catch a butterfly is silly, isn’t it? Like trying to catch a musical note. You reach for it, but its already in the past and where you’re reaching next is an unattainable future. I know this, but something deep in my brain compelled me to try. To reach. To catch. Compelled me. Compelled me.

What do you mean, how did I know his name was Butter? Haven’t I already told you insects are telepathic? No? Really? Well now you know! But you have to be receptive to their thoughts, or you’ll never hear them. I’m glad you’re writing that down. You did write that down, didn’t you? My story is full of lessons and that’s a big one.

Why did I want to catch Butter? I didn’t, really. Not in a pin-him-down-to-examine-him way. I merely wanted to say hi to him, in my grounded-in-space-and-time touchy-feely way, not in his teleporting-butterfly way. Way way way. It’s difficult communicating in people terms when talking about insect communication.

While I thought about catching Butter I watched how he moved. Of course he was teleporting, that’s what butterflies do. First he’d be in one spot, then another WITH NO IN BETWEEN! Lots of bugs do that. But while I watched him I had an insight. When Butter teleported from here to there, he was dancing. Cha cha cha … chaaa Just like that. That’s how I caught him. I watched how he danced and anticipated his next move and …

I don’t want to talk about Butter anymore. Let’s talk about something else.

When did it start? You mean cockroaches dancing the marimba? Well I don’t know how to answer that question. My understanding is that cockroaches have been playing music for millions of years, and I’d guess they’ve been teleporting for even longer. I’ll have to ask Jumpy … BUT I CAN’T!! All because Mrs. Dobson …

You’re right. I shouldn’t get wound up about what Mrs. Dobson did to Flit and Cocky and Trombone Skeeter … and so many of my cockroach friends. That’s in the past. You can’t unsquash a bug. Though I’ve tried. Let me tell you, I’ve tried.

Oh! You want to know when the cockroaches started marimba dancing in my apartment? I know just when, exactly. When I had a fever, last Christmas. I mean immediately after I had a fever.

It was a very bad fever, thank you for asking. It swelled up my brain and made my ears ring like the ‘A’ train. But it’s all better, now. More than better: now I’m telepathic.

To be precise, I first noticed the musical cockroaches after my fever broke, just when I got better. I’d been in bed for over a week and then suddenly I had to get up. You know the way your body tells you that sleep time is over. It was 3 a.m. The radiator was going clangy chank; the ice box was going clickety boom; a car alarm on the street was going hunka hunka woo, and the neon Chickin-Delite sign outside my window was going Szzzz-itt Szzzz-itt.

So of course I started to do a happy dance.

What is a happy dance? You know how music is always everywhere in the world and you just have to listen for it? Well when you hear it. And feel it. And you dance along because it makes you feel so good. Well that’s a happy dance.

What happened next? Wrong question. You should ask what was happening now, which was a party. The cockroaches who normally live around my fridge came out and joined my party. I didn’t realize it at first, because the only light was the neon Chicken Delite sign outside my window. But then I moved suddenly and they started teleporting, off the fridge onto the counter and into the sink. Like I told you earlier, when bugs do that they’re dancing. And when I stood still and listened, I heard what they were dancing to.

What music were they dancing to? Good question. Let’s make this fun! I’ll give you a clue.

Chickity chickity cha.

You don’t get it? Clap your hands! Not like your fingers are bait-fish! Really clap!

Do you get it now? Here’s another clue. Its really just the same clue, repeated for emphasis:

Chickity chickity cha.

You don’t get it? The cockroaches weren’t just teleporting, they were marimba dancing!

At first I thought I was crazy. But because it was Latin music I knew I wasn’t. You know the way some religious people see the face of Jesus on a cloth. In the same way, if I’d been crazy I’d have heard music I loved, like a pretty song by Fauré, or a Palestrina motet. But the cockroaches were playing a musical form I hardly knew and never listen to.

I saw you smile. It is funny, isn’t it? You can go through life insensitive to the music that’s all around you, and then one day you hear a band of cockroaches playing marimba music in your sink, and without even noticing it happening you find yourself in the middle of a party!

Another lesson: life is full of surprises.

Why did I threaten Ms. Dobson? That’s quite a curve-ball question, Doctor, given that we were talking about cockroaches marimba dancing while celebrating my Glitter anniversary. But don’t worry. I’m not fazed because I’m way ahead of you. I’ve already thought of an answer to that question, which is another question: is that really the best question to ask? If I were you I’d ask, “why don’t more people threaten Mrs. Dobson?” But maybe you aren’t asking me because the answer is so obvious. You’ve met Mrs. Dobson so you know what I mean.

Wait a minute. Have you met Ms. Dobson? No? If you haven’t seen her in person maybe you don’t know what I mean. She looks like a squirrel. Not the nice kind, that chitter in the shade of willow trees. That’s how squirrels sing, by chittering and they dance by … Woah! I caught that just in time.

Yes. yes. Of course. As I was saying, Mrs. Dobson is one of the mean kind of squirrels who chase little squirrels and try to bite them.

Hold your question! Before you ask I’ll tell you. I know what you want to ask! Are you listening?

Sorry. Of course you’re listening. Where was I? I was answering your unspoken question about squirrels. You can tell a squirrel is mean because it has patchy fur and small, mistrustful eyes. Just like Ms. Dobson’s except squirrels have brown eyes and her eyes are foggy blue. And she has patchy white hair instead of fur.

What was that? You wanted to know why I broke her broom? Do you even have to ask?

Oh, all right. I’ll tell you. The night I broke her broom the party started – like it always does – at 3:00 a.m. with the marimba band in the sink. And you can be sure that I was doubly sure to be there on my Glitter anniversary.

I didn’t set an alarm. I couldn’t have slept even if I wanted to with the radiator going sphifffst. And the cockroaches going chiggity chiggity cha. And the Chickin Delite sign going ….

Of course. We’ve covered the musicality of my apartment. But isn’t it funny? The musicality of everything leads to the next part of the story. Like cha follows chiggity chiggity. So of course I started to dance a happy dance. I was extra careful not to step on any cockroaches. That was difficult, because there were a lot of them. There’s something about marimba music that brings them out …

Infestation? That’s not a nice word. Do you say that Manhattan is infested with people? Of course not. Do you say a Knicks game is infested with fans? …

Did I have a lot of cockroaches? I don’t think so. At least not a lot as in too many. I’d say the number was just right. Or better than just right because I’m lucky and they trust me and play marimba music in my sink. Which is how some is like having more because they’re all right there, not afraid, not hiding.

At least they didn’t hide until Ms. Dodson spoiled the fun with her broom and diatomaceous earth. That’s earth that makes you irritated the way tenacious people do. Its made of shells and ground up bones.

Murderous earth. Indifferent brooms. Ground up bones. Murderous bones. Bones …

Her broom? Right! I was talking about brooms in general. The problem with Mrs. Dobson’s broom is that some people get meaner in proportion to the amount of fun everyone else is having. And was my Glitter anniversary ever fun. The music kept getting more exciting. It started simply enough – chiggity chiggity chaaa chiggity chiggity chaaa chaaaaaa – but before you knew it, it was clacketty clack ka boom bang bang BOOM!

Sorry about your vase. I sometimes get carried away by my memories …

What was that? Sure I’ll sit down.

What was the ka boom? Hah! I see where you’re going with this. You’re right. Ka boom bang bang BOOM is not the kind of music you associate with Marimba Cockroaches. That sound was the ice-maker laying down a beat. Cocky’s orchestra played along. And Trombone Skeeter …

The BOOM? That? That was the sound of my bookshelf falling over.

I don’t even need to read your mind. I can tell what you’re thinking from the envious expression on your face: the Marimba Roaches were so terrific that you, yes even you with your stiff white coat and soft pencil, you could get carried away dancing and knock over furniture.

Let’s try!

Sing along if you want!

Here I gooo! Chiggity chiggity boom bang. Chiggity chiggity boom bang bang BOOM!

Pardon? OK. I’ll sit down. But I think you’re making a mistake not joining me. One of the lessons in this story is learning to dance to the music all around you.

What about Mrs. Dobson? Aside from her knocking on my ceiling with her broom. She gets so carried away. No sense of rhythm at all. But Cocky’s orchestra was good; he just incorporated her noise into a song. Let me tell you, if Duke Ellington was an insect …

The rice cooker? Sure I’ll tell you all about it! That’s the best part! You see I’d forgotten about the rice in the cooker. What I mean to say is I hadn’t thought about it for a week, if that counts as forgotten. So when the book shelf knocked it over I discovered a whole community of roaches was having its own private party and our two parties merged. Wow! You should have been there!

Did Mrs. Dobson’s banging with the broom make me want to stop? Hah! Hardly! Remember I told you this story is full of lessons, Doctor. Mrs. Dobson’s banging is one of them. There’s always someone banging and stomping but you should never let them distract you from the music that’s everywhere. Banging on the ceiling, stomping on the floor, the crash of breaking furniture and the splatter of broken appliances: that’s life giving you a rhythm section!

Even at 3 am? What kind of question is that? Especially at 3 am. At that time of night the clubs are closed so your musical options are quite limited.

What did Mrs. Dobson say when she broke open the door?

Oh my God! That’s what she said. And then she went sweep crazy. Can you believe it? Cocky was inviting her to his party and she killed his entire orchestra! And while sweeping, she brought God into it, with hideous ruin and combustion! God God God. The next time you stomp on a bug ask yourself which creatures were made in God’s image? JUST ASK!

I hear you. I HEAR YOU! But you’re making a mistake. The mistake you’re making is thinking that there are two sides to this story. Who broke up the party? Who swept away the band? There is no middle ground. There is no other side to this story! I mean aside from the wrong side. Mrs. Dobson’s side.

No, I won’t answer that question unless you answer mine first. Has Mrs. Dobson been arrested for what she did to Cocky and Jump and Flit and Trombone Skeeter? She hasn’t been has she? No need to tell me: I can hear your thoughts loud and clear. But I can hear your heart as well, and in your heart you know its wrong. That’s why you’re scowling.

You’re conflicted because you know. We stumble through the insect world like insensitive giants. But twice as dumb. And deaf to music. Mute. And unwilling to dance.

Did Mrs Dobson hear the music? No she did not. She could have heard BUT SHE DID NOT LISTEN.

I hope you’re listening, Doctor, because here comes the most important lesson of all:

We call our inability to hear the music of the world so many bad words, like fastidiousness and disgust but that is dishonesty caused by fear: we’re afraid of how music pulls us out of ourselves and connects us in one great big happy dance, not just with each other but with birds and bees and bugs. We could ALL hear music all around us, but most of us choose to hear noise!

But the music is always there, if you listen.

Listen.

Listen.

 

 

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“Daddy, what are you doing?” Jennifer lightly crawled over her father’s lap and then sat down.

“Counting out your inheritance, sweet pea.”

Jennifer looked down at the dirty coins that cluttered her father’s mahogany-stained desk ”Gimme a break. I hope that you can do better than that.”

“Of course I can. This will be one of many things I hope you to remember me by.”

David leaned over his desk and began to organize his coins into tiny piles, by value, size and year. Piles of commemorative coins were scattered around the perimeter. He slowly, rhythmically tapped his foot, and bounced his slender daughter on his knee as he sorted the old coins, their clinking sounds resonating merrily together. He buried himself more deeply into his idle work, transported for a moment from his tiring life by a feeling of simple whimsy. There was a song in his head.

“Dad!” Jessica shouted angrily “Andrew is stealing my doll.” The happy feeling passed in a moment as the duties of parenthood returned.

“I am not. I had it first.”

“It’s mine.”

“Calm down”, Dad interjected, trying perhaps too hard to project a voice of reason. “You must learn to share your …”

“Give it back”

“Its mine.”

“No its …”

“Who wants to jump on the couch? “

“I do”, the children chimed in chorus, their fight ending abruptly.

Reason never wins, he thought, his irritation passing as quickly as their anger. “Come along dear children”. He stooped ever so slightly to grab their hands and together they walked downstairs to the TV room.

“Andrew, help me put the cushions on the floor” shouted excited Jennifer, breaking away from her father and rushing forward in excitement.

“We must be careful not to put them too far away from the couch so we don’t hurt ourselves.”

Dad stood back to watch their model behaviour, amused by how his rules were embraced when they corresponded with his children’s wants and needs.

“That’s my half and that’s your half.”

“I’m climbing up the back of the couch.”

“OK.”

“Daddy, look at me! Me!” Jennifer jumped up and down, giggling raucously.

“Do you think you can jump up to my hands?” Dad put his hands 1 metre above his daughters’ heads.

“I can.”

“I can.”

The two children bounced against their father’s outstretched hand, causing his arms to rise and fall.

“I can land on my bum”, Jennifer shouted suddenly and pulled her legs out from under herself and bounced several times.

“Watch out”, her startled father nearly shouted. “You know your mother wouldn’t want you to do that. You could hurt yourself.”

§

Meanwhile upstairs Daniel raced through this week’s sci-fi favourite, for once not disturbed by his riotous sisters. Page 48: the witch was testing Paul. If he flinched he would die.

“What was that noise?”, Daniel looked up from his book.

Page 49: Paul is on the verge of death! He must not flinch: the witch is pitiless…

“What was that wheezing noise?” Sigh. “Better go check.”

Paul found his mother lying flat on her back, staring at the ceiling with blank eyes. Her breath was shallow and constrained as if she were breathing solely out of her throat with no support from stomach, lungs or diaphragm. Her chest rose shallowly and fell. Otherwise, she did not move.

Daniel stood stunned for a moment while he made the transition from a fictional death to his dying mother.

He walked quickly to the top of the stairs. Before he could utter a word the bouncing game stopped.

Dad looked up. “Is something wrong?”

Daniel nodded and looked toward the kitchen. His father raced up the stairs. The daughters followed closely behind. They rushed in to the kitchen and then slowly encircled Mom’s prostrate body.

Eleanor stood for a moment trying to work out her next moves. Her girl scout training took over: she kneeled beside Mom and began a futile attempt to revive her. Mom’s body was very limp, and inflated not one millimetre more than Eleanor’s exhales allowed.

Daniel said to no one in particular, “I’ll call an ambulance.”

Dad protectively attempted to shepherd the little girls. ‘Come along, children. Let us leave Eleanor with mother. Let’s go in to the den to pray.”

They all moved to the adjoining room, cleared away a teak coffee table, then kneeled in a circle. Dad began to pray. The girls wriggled distractedly and kept glancing over their shoulders to where Eleanor was trying to help Mom.

Daniel returned from the kitchen and stood mute in the doorway between the living room and den, looking alternatively at the inaction of his father and the futile action of his sister. Eventually he squatted beside his sister, waiting for her to ask for assistance, unable to think of anything that he could do to help.

§

Unexpectedly, firemen arrived instead of ambulance workers, their truck with a light on but no siren. Three years ago the scene would have been the definition of excitement, now it was a very disconcerting reminder of a reality that he had only just begun to know.

The family backed away from the medical workers and regrouped in the den. No work was spoken but they acted in concert, the little ones avidly – but mutely – following their elders for clues.

“Daddy, is Mom going to be alright?”

“Certainly, pumpkin. You can count on it.”

‘Mr. McKinnon. Could you come here please.’ Dad joined a fireman in the kitchen.

After their father got out of earshot Daniel turned to his sisters and said, “That’s bullshit. Did you see the gear those guys used on her? Did you see how waxy she looked? I love mom. I’m going to miss her.”

Daniel and the girls sat down together on the couch, the children wriggling slightly as they tried to get further under the protective arms of their elder brother. He held them tightly, trying to calm his own fear. Reactions varied among the children. Anna, the youngest, looked blankly at her two siblings and then across the hall towards her father trying to assess the situation from reactions. Daniel stood mute and slightly stunned wavering between his fears and a desire to retain control. For Grace, amorphous child hood fears of loss and rejection, reinforced by dozens of nightmares, suddenly crystallized in one focused feeling of panic. She was so upset that she trembled.

Eleanor stood with her back to the group, watching the firemen raise Mom onto a stretcher then bring her outside to where she was bathed in red light then the blue light of the approaching ambulance.

“Everyone hold hands and get down on your knees and pray.” The three youngest looked at each other blankly while Eleanor moved to her knees so quickly that she brought Dad down with her.

Eleanor looked out the window onto the patio. The black sky was tinted blue by the pre-glow of the sun. She glanced at the clock. 6 am. “Dad, its almost morning. Shouldn’t you call the office?”

Dad didn’t notice. He was still on his knees continuing to pray. Everyone else slowly got up. Eleanor rose last, crossed herself devotedly and went to the kitchen. The children could hear her pick up the phone and dial.

“Hi, this is David McKinnon’s daughter, Eleanor. Our Mom just had a stroke. Dad won’t be coming into work for a few days.”

“Daddy’s working at home this week!” Grace’s face lit up.

“Shut up.”

Grace fell silent in an instant then began to cry.

“C’mon Jenn. Be nice to Grace. She’s young. She doesn’t understand.”

“I don’t understand.”

Eleanor finished the call, Daniel moved into Den and placed his hands on the heads of Jennifer and Grace. They all stood silently, having run out of ideas as to what their next moves should be.

Dad finally broke the impasse. “Get your coats children, we’re going to the hospital.”

“I don’t want to go!”

“I know that you’re really tired, sweet pea, but we have to join Mom at the hospital. She wants it this way.”

“How do you know? Did she talk to you?”

“I know pumpkin. Run along. Get your coat.”

The family piled into the family’s country-squire station wagon. The usual fights over windows ensued. When the dust settled Eleanor was in Mom’s spot in the front seat, Daniel was alone in the back and Jennifer and Grace had enacted an uneasy truce in the middle seat.

“I think that I should drive, Dad.”

“No. Let me drive Eleanor.”

“No, I really think…”

“Eleanor please. I need this. To take my mind off…”

Eleanor retreated into large folds of the front seat and was silent.

Dad thankfully choose to take the longer, slower route to the hospital. Which was fortunate because he ran right through a stop sign at the intersection of McNichol and Clansman, and slammed on the breaks half way through running the red light at Leslie St.

“Just turn left Dad. Take it easy. Turn left then drive straight for 2 miles. Please watch the traffic lights.”

As the family drove down Leslie Street Eleanor fingered her onyx rosary, while the rest of them looked out of the car window, blankly staring at the dawn.

§

When a hospital is described to you in the story of your birth it seems like a magical place. It’s where you first happened, ground zero. The first actual visit was doubly bleak for occurring during a time of dying. They went to Toronto General. It was as if they were visiting one of the more benign levels of hell: a clean but poorly lit maze with random corridors branching off in unlikely directions. The light was deathly blue.

For the first two hours all they did was wait in a cheerless room with thin gray carpeting and an odd assortment of romance and action books. Bleak, boring.

Then a nurse appeared out of nowhere. “Mr. McKinnon, you can come in now. Will your children be coming in with you?”

Dad didn’t have the energy to enforce a decision on his children so he simply rose and followed the nurse and they walked in with him. Grace started to talk once but Eleanor severely cut her off and after that she was silent though her brown eyes were big.

Mom was attached to intravenous devices and strange plastic machines that helped her breathe and digest. Her face was blue and her breathing was thin.

“Let’s say a rosary together.” Hands clasped, heads down we mumbled through a dozen Hail Mary’s. Mom made a rattling sound with her throat. We all stopped at once to look, except for Dad, who took a moment to notice. Then her wheezing stopped. The nurse closed her eyes with a gentle latex touch then turned Mom’s palms to face upward.

Silence. “How old is Mom?”

“She was 47”.

The family stood mutely around her dead body. Minutes passed in silence and then we each left. Once everyone was in the hallway. Dad silently returned to the hospital room to say his final farewell. Eleanor marshalled the rest of us towards the waiting room.

Grace suddenly fell down “My shoe doesn’t work.”

“That’s stupid. Shoes don’t break.”

“I can’t stand up. My right shoe DOESN’T WORK!”

“Let me look at it.” Eleanor approached Grace, as the eldest woman preparing to take on some of Mom’s roles. Grace recoiled and reached both arms towards Daniel who lifted her up and carried over to the couch. Everyone sat down again and was silent while Daniel comforted Grace and retied her shoe laces.

§

“Dad, when are you going to be 47?”

“Not now, Gracie. I’m busy.”

“He’s 46 now! You know that idiot.”

“Is 46 less than 47?”

“Yes. Can’t you count?”

“Give her a break! She’s just little.”

“Dad, when you die can I go with you?”

“Not now, Grace. I’m busy.”

Grace crawled on to his lap. “Dad, what are you doing?”

“I’m sorting coins, sweat pea.”

“Why are you sorting coins?”

“I’m picking up where I left off. The last thing that I did before Mom left us was organize the family coin collection. Now I’m finishing my job. That’s what we’ve all got to do now, pumpkin. Pick up where we left off and finish our jobs”. He returned to his work.

Clink, clink. Dirty pennies were quietly counted, stacked, then put away. Dad put the last penny down and stared blankly at the table in front of him. Once there was a song in his head. Over the past week it had turned into a rhythm and now it had flattened into a repetitive beat. Blood flowing through the heart in pulses. Day preceding then following night. You could count the days. Fin

Draft March 2005

 

 

This story is a reflection on the morality of revenge. It was originally inspired by my contempt for the dictator Islam Karimov, but applies to every tyrant you’ve ever wanted to see tortured for their crimes. My hope is that this story eventually gets turned into a graphic novel or short animation.

Start

The words “The Tyrant suffers forever so that we may live in peace” were etched in block metal letters above the entrance to the Lattice of Sorrow. The phrase struck Ayesha as a vengeful prayer.

She walked along the long shadows cast by the words and through the massive open gate. The Lattice, perhaps the largest sculpture in the galaxy, now stretched out before her, each one of its billion monuments commemorating a tragedy from the Last Great War. The smallest memorials were no bigger than a tombstone; the largest, great stone and metal mausoleums, covered hundreds of cubic metres. They stretched in every direction and far up into the sky, all unique save for two common elements: each told a story about one of the Tyrant’s massacres, and each had a light symbolizing the life and death of one of the Tyrant’s trillion victims.

For the next hour Ayesha randomly floated through the Lattice, experiencing the sensations which emanated from the memorials. Some whispered stories, others broadcast emotions scanned from victims at the moment of their deaths. The most prevalent emotions were horror and fear. The most unsettling emotion was relief, for people only feel relieved to die after unbearable suffering.

A placard at the centre of a marble arched doorway caught her attention. It read,

The recording contained in this mausoleum was taken 1,000 seconds after the death of the child Elizum Kemble. He was one of the one billion people killed during the Siege of Ashanti, the final battle of the Last Great War.

The Tyrant suffers forever so that we may live in peace.

Ayesha had always thought that it was perverse to experience a death scan, but because of her anger at this senseless murder she decided that she would. She stepped under the tomb’s portico and paused for a moment. Upon entering she felt a slight jolt as her perspective was replaced by that of the murdered child.

Mechanized soldiers fall through the air like snowflakes, their uniforms splashes of white against a deep, blue sky and a brown, dusty town. I want to run but I cannot. There is no where to run to. We are encircled. I hide in the shadow of a doorway hoping that I have not been seen.

The soldiers walk towards each other, compressing the crowd – my friends, my family. I want to help them but I cannot. I am trembling with fear.

The Mechs pause, raise their weapons and fire. As the dust settles they vacuum up the corpses into the balloon-like bags they carry on their backs.

As the man-machines clear the quare of bodies, one turns suddenly and looks directly at my hiding place.

I stare into its mottled green-brown eyes, trying to understand what, if anything, it is thinking as it prepares to kill me.

Ayesha hastily stepped out of the mausoleum. She was shaking because the Mech that killed Elizum Kemble had the same eyes as the one that had murdered her own family. She staggered off the platform in front of the memorial, hovered unsteadily in the air for a moment and then scudded away into the darkening sky. She had had enough of memorials so she flew directly towards her ultimate destination, the Ashanti Palace. The Palace, which once was a regional headquarters in the Tyrant’s empire, had been converted into a prison and museum after his defeat.

The entrance to the Palace faced onto the Plaza of Justice. From a distance the Plaza appeared flat and empty, save for a lighted sphere in the middle. As she drew closer she saw that it was teeming with people. Many were clearly tourists, but there were also clusters of semi-permanent camps inhabited by protesters and agitators. Though most were concerned with the Tyrant’s suffering – some for, most against – she could see representatives from a vast array of the galaxy’s political interests. If you wanted to get a message out, this was a good place to do it: most people visited the Lattice of Sorrow at least once in their lives.

The Plaza was so large that it took several minutes of flying before Ayesha saw the Panopticon, which was popularly known as the Tyrant’s Punishment. She had always thought of the Panopticon as a transparent sphere, but as she approached it she could see that it wasn’t a structure at all: it was simply a force field that held the Tyrant’s gaunt, twitching body suspended in the air. From a distance his disjointed movements appeared graceful, but as she lowered herself closer to him she saw that he was in agony.

Unlike her siblings and friends, Ayesha had never flinched in the face of pain. When she grazed herself as a child she did not run whining to her parents for solace. Instead she would investigate the wound, and try to conquer her pain. She could not help but look at the Tyrant. After ten thousand days of torture she was surprised to see that his sunken, hollow eyes were alert: they constantly darted around, looking directly at faces in the crowd that pushed around the edges of the Panopticon, angling for a better view. The look in his reddened eyes was deranged. His apparent lunacy was emphasized by his frayed tongue, which incessantly licked his bloody lips.

After several minutes of intent viewing Ayesha retreated to a quiet spot several hundred feet above the Tyrant’s body, and prepared to watch the end of the Cycle, a 10,000 day period during each second of which a memorial light would be extinguished to commemorate one of his murders. As each the light was extinguished, the Tyrant’s body would be wracked by pain. At the beginning of the Cycle the Lattice burned with lights. Now that the Cycle was ending the lights were gradually giving way to night. When the last light was extinguished later this evening, medics would take down his wretched body so that he could be revived sufficiently to endure another round of torture. Ayesha would interview him immediately before the Punishment resumed.

One hour before dawn the last memorial light was extinguished. The only light in the entire Lattice of Sorrow came from the Panopticon, which continued to glow with hard white-blue light. The Tyrant’s body hung limply, only periodically twitching from muscle memory, not torture. Over the next few minutes the light from the Panopticon began to fade; soon everything became black and still. The darkness lasted an interminable time then was ended by a loud, crashing noise, which echoed for a few minutes more. When the last echo died away there was a final moment of silence and then the memorial lights were turned back on.

The Plaza was far more crowded than Ayesha had realized. She lowered herself carefully into an empty spot several hundred metres from her destination, the main entrance to the Palace. On her way she passed a group of protesters quietly sitting in a circle, sipping tea. Their placards read, “Only God can punish for eternity” and “Let the Tyrant die and be judged. Hell is worse than any punishment humans can devise.” These pacifists were flanked by a more sanguine group sitting in the shade of a large banner which read, “His soul has been judged already. Let his body suffer for his crimes.” Ayesha rushed passed the two camps, not wanting to get embroiled in a dispute.

As she approached the Palace entrance she wondered yet again what she hoped to achieve in her upcoming interview. She had no desire to vindicate the Tyrant’s crimes and was indifferent to pleas for clemency. She opposed punitive justice when it was difficult to determine guilt with certainty. But in this case there were no doubts. The Tyrant had ravaged over one million worlds and though he personally had killed not one person, his soldiers had murdered over one trillion innocent civilians. The thought of these atrocities brought her mind back to Elizum Kemble’s murderer, the man-machine with a white steel body and human eyes. She wasn’t interested in the machinery of terror; but rather the humanity behind it.

A rabid looking man pushed his way in front of her and shouted, “He didn’t do it! He only killed in self-defense. This is all a lie!” The Denier waved a brochure he thought contained evidence for his ignorant claim. Ayesha pushed the man aside and walked into the thickest part of crowd, towards the main entrance to the Palace.

Once there she activated her security pass. One moment later a group of soldiers appeared out of nowhere and with apparently no effort cleared the crowd from around her. They entered the Palace through a tiny side door which opened onto one wing of a tremendous, square hallway. The floors of the hallway were paved with polished marble laid out in a red and white checkered pattern. Twenty metre high marble statues lined each wall. In the center of the hallway there was a huge alabaster sculpture of a man wrestling with a snake. The roof had a grid of skylights that let light shine down in articulated lines. The roof was held up by long columns of dark green marble, the tops of which were decorated with elaborate carvings of acanthus leaves.

Seven hallways radiated out from the atrium, a main hallway that immediately faced the entrance-way and one on each of the 3 remaining sides. Ayesha was led by her escorts around the based of the alabaster statue towards the main hallway. Her footstep’s echoed loudly as she walked. The soldiers who accompanied her were silent. At the entrance to the hallway she saw the erect, still body of a Mech. She looked at its eyes. They too were mottled green-brown. Her entire body became tense with fear. She halted several metres before it to collect herself. Her escort saluted and left.

The Mech let her stand silently for a respectful moment and then spoke with a disconcertingly soft voice. “Are you alright?” She tried to answer the mechanized soldier’s question but could not.

The Mech spoke again. “Please do not be alarmed madam. No doubt you have seen countless images of soldiers like me enacting terrible atrocities. You may have even experienced a death scan. Fear not. I have been reprogrammed; I pose no threat to you.” She did not respond; fear had paralyzed her.

“Ma’am. We have a very tight schedule.” The Mech offered his arm, as an escort. She flinched away from his touch but nevertheless proceeded in the direction he indicated.

The main hallway was designed in a baroque style. It had a painted parquet floor and its walls were adorned with tall mirrors, which were interspersed with arched crystalline windows. Large glass chandeliers hung in a row from the centre of the ceiling. Even the most prosaic items, such as door handles and torch holders, were the products of elaborate craftsmanship. Ayesha paused to examine a fresco that dominated one wall. The focus of the painting was a man with a great powdered wig; his clothes were made of purple velvet and were covered with heavy gold ornaments. His feet were shod in long leather boots which opened up at his thighs. On one hip he wore a scabbard out of which protruded the handle of a sword which had been decorated with colored stones; his gloved right hand rested on a holster, which contained a gun. On his head he wore a large, rimmed hat which was decorated with a tremendous feather. The large feathered cap initially made Ayesha think that this man was some type of shaman, but when she examined the painting more carefully she realized he was a military leader. Directly in front of the great man was a prostrate man, grandly dressed, who was signing a handwritten document. The prostrate man was also flanked by armored men, though his soldiers had all lowered themselves onto one knee, and were unarmed.

Ayesha moved slowly forward, examining the other paintings. All contained similar themes: pictures of the great man in various grand, dysfunctional outfits, surrounded by victorious and vanquished soldiers. She realized then that the entire hallway, the mirrors, the chandeliers, the crystalline windows, down to the very last, ornate detail, had been constructed to glorify this one man’s military exploits. Not one painting gave any indication of how brutal warfare was for these soldiers. “Imagine killing someone by impaling them with a metal stick, or blowing them apart with small balls of steel” she thought. “Somehow such images never never adorn monuments to military victories. It’s as if humans have a disability which makes us unable to see our barbarity for what it is even as we celebrate it.”

Her escort interrupted her reverie. “While we wait for the Prisoner is there anything you would like to know about the Palace or the Last Great War?”

“Who is that man?” Ayesha pointed to the painting of the leader with the feathered hat.

“His name is Louis Quattorze. He was a French ruler. This is all a replica of a hallway in one of his Palaces.”

“Was he a great military leader?”, she asked bitterly.

The Mech replied in a neutral voice. “If you judge greatness in terms of conquests, then no he was not a great leader. Although he fought many wars against his neighbors, when he died his nation’s borders were little changed from when he began. Most of the few increases in territory he did achieve were legal victories, not military.” The fact that the glorious battles depicted along this gallery were pointless did little to change her low opinion of Louis Quattorze.

The Mech waited a respectful moment for Ayesha to reply, and when she didn’t, said, “The craft-work is tremendous, isn’t it, particularly when you consider that the originals these artifacts were modeled on were all constructed with crude tools?”

She nodded her assent, but let the Mech’s attempt to converse fail.

The Mech’s wrist beeped sullenly. “It’s time”. He nodded towards the doorway at the end of the hallway. They passed through it into a large room also decorated in a baroque style.

“What is this place?”, Ayesha asked.

“The Hall of Peace.”

“Was this one of Mr. Quattorze’s chambers?”

“No. The Hall is modern. It is where the Tyrant was captured after his attempted suicide.”

They did not enter the Hall but instead turned down a grey, utilitarian service corridor. At the corridor’s end they encountered a heavy metal door with a grill on its thick glass window. The Mech gestured towards the door, “Please enter. This is where you will be meeting the Prisoner.”

The interview room was a small, windowless box, with white walls illuminated by bright blue-white lights. In the center of the room there was a thin metal table which was bolted to the floor. There was only one chair. She expected the Mech to stand but wondered where the Tyrant would sit. Directly opposite the chair there was a second door exactly the same as the one through which she had entered. She sat down on the chair while the Mech moved beside the second door and became still.

As Ayesha waited she looked directly at the Mech. It was interesting what human traits had been retained in the design of these man-machines. They had protuberances which resembled arms and legs, they spoke through a vent where one would expect a mouth, and had human-like, eyes. “Why had their designers retained any human attributes?” she wondered.

“How old are you?” she asked the Mech. Though the question itself was neutral, her tone of voice was accusatory.

“I was born 1,158 years ago. I reached this final state” it gestured towards its body, “1,026 years ago, just after the conclusion of the Last Great War.”

“Why do you exist?”

Though the Mech’s voice remained without affect, it’s awkward body language made her think it was taken aback by her question. It replied, “What do you mean?”

“I know that you are an amalgamation of human soldier and machine. But I don’t understand the need for a hybrid soldier. Why didn’t the Tyrant create an army of robots? What does your humanity bring to soldiering?”

“Memory”, the Mech replied.

“I don’t understand”.

“The way humans and machines interpret their experiences is different. Machines have virtually unlimited storage capacity. Humans do not and therefore must constantly filter and reinterpret their experiences. The Tyrant felt that war was an art, and that humans, because of how they remember and learn, are more artistic than machines.”

“But you are programmed.”

“It is true that the general parameters of my behavior are strictly regulated. For example, I am incapable of killing you right now. Or any human, for that matter. But within certain parameters I am free to act based on my experiences and judgment. I am not very different from you, except my boundaries are programmed.”

“What about your conscience?” she asked. The Mech did not answer her question. She spoke again, “Did you fight in the War?”

“Yes. In fact I fought right here on Ashanti, during the final battle of the war.”

“Did you kill anyone?” Ayesha looked directly into the Mech’s mottled eyes as she asked this question.

“I personally was responsible for 1,021,067 verified deaths and several million more that were never verified.”

“Do you regret what you did?”

“What I did was senseless.”

“Is that your programming talking?”

“No. From a purely military perspective, the massacres were not constructive, even though our victims’ bodies did power our weapons.”

“Did you take any death scans?”

“I took scans from as many of my victims as I could. Scanning was part of my standing orders.”

“Have you experienced the scans?”

“Yes. All of them.”

Ayesha imagined this man-machine sequestered in a booth reviewing its murderous deeds from the perspective of its victims. She wondered if it was like an idiot child who could use its fingers to count but could not make the cognitive leap to abstract numbers. Could this Mech determine that its senseless murders were evil or did the fact that it was programmed preclude the possibility of moral sensibility? Could you program conscience? Could you unprogram it?

Her agitated mind leapt to the memory of her family’s murder. Looking directly at the Mech she asked, “Have you ever been to the planet Luthan?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

Ayesha let the conversation lapse.

The door opposite her opened with a clang revealing the body of the Tyrant suspended awkwardly in the air by a force-field, which maneuvered him into the space in front of her. He dangled limply in the air, the toes of his feet hovering a few centimeters above the tiled floor. The door slammed shut.

Despite having just been revived by medics, the Tyrant was stooped and frail. He wore an orange jumper which hung loosely on his body. His watery blue eyes were unfocused and drifted lazily around the room, rarely settling on any one object for more than a blink. His manner was likewise unfocused and his limbs constantly twitched. There was no hair anywhere on his body.

He leaned forward suddenly and shouted directly into her face, “What is your name?!”

The force-field that contained him slammed him back into the air, so that his body became straight and rigid. Immobilized, he floated back towards the door. Though startled, she replied without hesitation. “Ayesha”.

After a moment the Prisoner began to move his fingers tentatively. His force-field prison allowed him a certain amount of free movement, if he behaved.

He addressed his next question to a blank wall. “You didn’t answer my question. I asked you, why are you here, Ayesha?”

“I’m here to interview you.”

“What do you want to talk about?” he continued, belligerently, his gaze still fixed on the blank white wall to his right. “My Punishment? Do you want me to tell you what its like to be repeatedly electrocuted? Do you want to talk to me about justice?”

Ayesha knew from her research that the Prisoner would eventually tire of these histrionics, so she silently waited for him to continue. After a moment he spoke again, this time with a tired voice, “Very well. Interview me.”

Ayesha took one long breath to collect herself. She only had a brief time for this interview and wanted to make each question count. She was well prepared. In her hand she held a list of clearly cross-referenced questions; a flowchart of potentialities. If he said this she would ask this, otherwise that. But where to start?

Her thoughts kept returning to Elizum Kemble’s memorial and the murder of her own family so she asked the question that had been foremost on her mind all day, “Half of your victims died in the last year of the War. Why did you keep killing after you had lost?”

The Prisoner floated away from Ayesha; his head fell backwards onto the nape of his neck and his manic eyes wandered around the ceiling as he answered her question, “Do you know the story of my capture?”

“You poisoned yourself moments before the 82nd airborne stormed this Palace. Allied medics revived you and then you were tried and sentenced by the War Crimes Tribunal to a life sentence for each one of your victims, to be served in the Panopticon.”

“Do you know what kind of poison I used?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how deadly it is?”

“Yes. At least I think I do.”

With each question the Tyrant’s body became slightly more erect and his eyes more focused. Suddenly he wheezed loudly and his rigidity collapsed. He hung in the air like a broken puppet, speaking his next statement with a soft, halting voice, “Ayesha, I was dead for over 6 hours before the medics revived me. I cannot answer your question. I do not remember anything from before I died.”

His quiet words inflamed her response, “Why would the Tribunal let me see you, if you have no memories? Why would they let anyone see you?”

He replied with the same defeated voice. “The Tribunal doesn’t believe me. They hope you will trip me up with clever questions.” He nodded towards the ceiling. “They’re watching now, you know. Of course you know.”

She dismissed his allusions to the surveillance sensors and continued. “But you can think. You’re lucid.”

“Yes. When I’m not being tortured.”

Ayesha’s mind was racing but directionless. If what he said was true, all of her questions were irrelevant. She repressed an urge to strike him. She knew that anger was just an expression of her frustration. Then her rage turned against the War Crimes Tribunal. “How dare they mislead me like this!” she thought. “This interview is the culmination of years’ worth of effort. They could have warned me about this!”

“Do you feel betrayed?” The Tyrant’s voice had a cloying tone. “Of course you do. All the interviewers do. You’ve been manipulated.”

“Where were you born?” Ayesha shot the question at him, like a trial lawyer.

“On the planet Sirius under a blood-red sun,” he immediately replied.

“How do you know that if you have no memories?”

“I hear that dreadful poem recited continuously when I am enduring my Punishment.” The Prisoner made a croaking noise which Ayesha assumed was laughter.

“What do you think of your sentence?”

He answered her question indirectly. “Did you experience any death scans before coming here?” She nodded and he continued. “There are millions scattered throughout the Lattice. My soldiers took most of those scans for me. I have been told that I used to experience the scans for pleasure. Ayesha, my sentence is horrific, but I can’t blame you for wanting to punish me. Of course I am guilty.”

His emphasis on the word you off-put her. She had never felt herself culpable for his suffering – he committed his trillion crimes and others punished him. But from his perspective of course she was. The Tyrant’s Punishment was dictated by her society. She could throw her support behind those who felt he was better off dead. But she did not, and therefore she shared some responsibility for his eternal suffering.

The Prisoner continued speaking, “You’re not here because of the people I murdered are you?” This raised her hackles, but before she could correct him he completed his point, “Ayesha, you’re here because of some other personal tragedy aren’t you?”

She took a moment to calm herself: it was foolish to be angry simply because this damaged, insane man had insight into her motives. She nodded.

“Are you afraid of me?”

She looked at him. “No.”

“What about that?” he nodded towards the Mech.

“It terrifies me.”

“Why?”

“Have you ever heard of Luthan?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“It’s a mining planet. I grew up there. My father was a senior executive in the company that owned it.” She looked at him to see if he was listening and couldn’t tell. Even though his gaze was averted, somehow, out of the corner of his left eye he watched her. He said, “I am listening. Continue.”

“When I was eight years old a company tried to buy Luthan. The company bribed most of the people who could influence the sale. My father opposed the bid. He was a stubborn man who was strongly motivated by his strict sense of morality. One day, as my family prepared for dinner, a Mech murdered him. Then it killed my brother, my mother and my two sisters. I escaped because I hid in a tree. The police never captured the murderer. They claimed it was a renegade from your army that had eluded reprogramming. It was a transparent but serviceable lie. The next day the planet was sold.”

The Prisoner responded to the space behind her left shoulder, “Ayesha, people are greedy.”

She shook her head sadly, “Its worse than that. Years later I saw an interview with the owner of the corporation that murdered my family. He was asked why his company had fought so hard for a relatively unimportant planet like Luthan. It turns out he did it for Eleutheria.” She began to shake while recalling the memory. The Prisoner reached one of his palsied hands towards her, but the movement was ended abruptly by a force-field.

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Eleutheria is a very beautiful garden. My family was murdered for a garden.”

“Would you torture their murderers?”

“No.”

“Would you kill them if you could do so with no consequences?”

When she did not answer, the Prisoner resumed his interrogation, “What do you feel about me?”

“I hate you.”

She braced herself for a demonstrative response, but instead the Tyrant slumped pathetically forward. His force field pushed his limp body back into an erect but akimbo position. He weakly spoke, “Ayesha, do you want me to suffer until the end of time?”

“I want you dead. You are a monster.”

He laughed weakly. “Ayesha, I’m certain that the old me, who I was before I died, would have loved your hatred.”

An alarm beeped twice. Moments later two soldiers appeared to escort the Tyrant from the room; the interview was over. As his limp body was pushed out of the door, Ayesha could see that he was trying to say something to her but his words were muted by his force-field prison.

The Mech escorted Ayesha to the service doors through which she had entered, but did not leave the Palace with her. She stepped alone into the crowd; the small doors closed quickly behind her. Immediately, a dissembling man with matted hair, loose clothing and wild eyes approached her waving a pamphlet into the air. “Lady, you must be important. Only important people are allowed into the Palace. Listen to me. He didn’t do it! You must set him free. He’s innocent.” The man stuffed a pamphlet into her hands and then shouted directly into her face “He Didn’t Do It!” Her temper flared; she harshly shoved him out of her way.

Her scuffle with the Denier was interrupted by a procession from the Palace: the Tyrant was being returned to his Punishment. Everyone turned to watch. At the base of the Panopticon the Tyrant’s escort backed off into a semi-circle around his skewed hovering body. Slowly he floated into the air. As he moved the cables that nourished and tormented him gradually ensnared him in a web. There was a thick moment of anticipation once he was in position; this was followed by a loud crashing sound which echoed into silence: the Cycle had begun. The Tyrant began to writhe in pain as one by one the lights of the Lattice of Sorrow were extinguished.

Ayesha fled in horror into the air far above the Plaza and then set her course away from the cursed place; the Denier followed her. She landed at entrance to the Lattice. The moment she did the Denier grabbed her by the shoulders, roughly turned her around and shouted into her face, “HE DIDN’T DO IT! YOU MUST HELP FREE HIM” She faced him full on and shouted in reply, “LEAVE ME ALONE!” and then violently pushed him to the ground. The Denier fell into the shadow of the letters cast by the gate:

The Tyrant suffers forever so that we may live in peace.

 

 

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