In Dark Corners (27 page)

Finally on the fourth tape, to protect their diminishing numbers, the Symbolists hide a group of non-defective readers in underground tanks, subjecting them to a freezing process that prolongs a kind of suspended animation. Then for two hundred years, generation after generation of defective survivors guard the tank sites, handing down a few plastic-wrapped books—items that become magical icons in their legends, awaiting the touch of the Ice Men when they return.

Growing weary, I set the player aside, vowing to finish the last disc tomorrow. But I tossed and turned the whole night, my rest disturbed by the blasphemies contained on the first four tapes.

Audio-disc excerpt from Chapter Eight of
Return Of The Ice Man,
a book confiscated June 7, 2052.

The San Fran Shield Hall of Justice was similar to those I'd visited in other parts of the world, except it was larger. I sat with CFE West officials behind the seventeen hooded defendants, who all wore come-along-stuns. Several cameras were positioned about the Hall, for the trial was being taped for Eve- and Late-Watches. Directly in front of me, facing both spectators and defendants, was a big screen, with an impressive personification of
MOSES
peering down on the accused. His lined face was framed with an unruly mane of silver hair and beard, complementing the unwavering intensity of his cold gaze. His voice was sharp, precise, and could be heard easily throughout the great Hall.

The trial proceeded like all the others I'd seen: The Caretaker in charge of the Sen-Dep probing preceded each defendant to the stand, answering background questions from
MOSES,
revealing incriminating aspects of Caretaker probing; then the defendant, released from the come-along-stun, was given an opportunity to answer questions. As the parade of defendants slowly went before
MOSES,
my interest began to wane. I grew weary and eventually nodded off…

A stir in the nearby spectators interrupted my brief rest.

I sat up with interest as the woman accused of being a reader was led forward. The Sen-Dep Caretaker had been able to extract little information; apparently the woman had been thoroughly conditioned to withstand probing—a fact incriminating in itself.

MOSES
asked the Caretaker to clarify an answer.

"No, we haven't determined their names, but both reader and writer were once citizens of old San Fran," the Caretaker said, checking a note by holding his small disc-player to his ear. "They conspired in leaving the impression they were both killed by outcasts on a trip north from the city."

"Thank you, Caretaker,"
MOSES
said, staring down at the accused reader. Unflinching under the stern gaze, the woman looked back up at the big screen. "You have been accused of a serious crime, woman," the image on the screen said, each word a cutting accusation, "the crime of reading a Symbolist book. How do you plead?"

"Plead?" the woman repeated. "I plead nothing. I can read, and I have read many books, for many groups. And before God this is no crime. I am not the criminal in these proceedings. And I do not recognize the contempt you utter for the word, Symbolist." Her defiant words were at odds with her soft, gentle voice; and her unusual show of strength created a nervous murmur in the spectators.

For a moment
MOSES
was silent, perhaps stunned by the woman's courage. Then, taking on a sly expression, he said, "Perhaps you wouldn't mind demonstrating your harmless skill and read a few passages from the book? Caretaker—?"

The woman was handed the book. She looked at it and smiled, caressing the title with her fingers as if it were something of great value. Then she nodded. "Yes, I'd be proud to read from Return Of The Ice Man," she said, her voice a loving whisper.

The computer image nodded wryly.

Carefully the woman thumbed to the middle of the book, finding a passage in Chapter Eight.

As she read my attention wavered from the story, and I found myself concentrating on the woman's voice, her tone, rhythm, inflection, emphasis, all struck a familiar chord.

But she stopped reading too soon. And, after a few more questions,
MOSES
dismissed her. "And now bring up the last defendant, the accused writer of this book."

They moved the hooded man forward, and I stared at his back, feeling a peculiar disorientation. I was unable to concentrate on the proceedings, the woman's voice sending me back into the past.

Could it be?
I asked myself. After
all this time...No, impossible. They were both dead
. These two were dangerous criminals, enemies of the Church. The familiar voice was only a, a…coincidence, a trick of my exhausted imagination.

But the sigh of relief caught in my throat as I recalled the Caretaker's testimony:
disappeared on a trip north
. Could it have been a trip to Couver? I felt faint.

Then I was jarred into the present by sharp, angry words.

MOSES
, an expression of righteous indignation on his face, was shouting at the writer, "Enough! Enough of this blasphemy! Caretaker, take him away. Take them all away to the cells. Except the reader and writer. Keep those two in the tanks. I will render judgment on tomorrow's Morn-Watch."

The screen went suddenly gray.

With conflicting feelings, I watched the back of the man and woman as they were led with the others out of the room. It couldn't be, I kept repeating to myself.

Audio-disc excerpt from Chapter Ten of
Return Of The Ice Man
, a book confiscated June 7, 2052.

That night the Bishop and I discussed the book. He felt the story, especially the far future ending of the tale, had some kind of a positive effect on Symbolist recruitment, attracting young people to Satan's tools of reading, writing, and science.

In effect, one book had the capability to destroy the Church! An incredible idea.

***

Later, in my sleeping cubicle, I found that indeed, the words of the last disc were powerful, almost mystical. After listening to it, I retired early, but I was restless, unable to go to sleep, my mind drawn back to the memory of the soft, gentle voice of the reader. It was familiar. But was it my mother's voice, or perhaps, like any orphan, was I only grasping at the thin possibility she might be alive?

Unable to dismiss the nagging belief that these two criminals might be my parents, I arose, dressed quickly, and hurried back to the Hall of Justice, my scarlet cowl the only passport needed to clear the Caretaker sentinels. I had to put my childish obsession to rest.

At the Hall, I went down past the Medcenter, past the cellblocks, to the lowest level—down to the Sen-Dep tanks. The Caretaker on duty at the probing console below a viewing screen agreed to my request; and, after flipping open the audio into the tanks, he stepped back a discrete distance.

I took his seat, conflicting emotions surging through me, as I stared up at the two figures on the screen. In their skintight, gray desensor skins, they floated weightlessly like two sleeping sea creatures. I bit down on my lip, questioning the foolish impulse that had sent me scurrying here in the middle of the night, an irrational desire to resurrect my parents. Sheer folly! Still, I was unable to dismiss the similarity of the voices. "Hello," I said, my tone strained to a sharp edge by my emotional state. "Can you both hear me?"

Neither image moved.

For I moment I wondered if they were alive—perhaps they had found a way to escape judgment.

Then, they each answered, their voices tinny and distant.

"My name is…" I began, but stopped short of revealing my identity. "My name doesn't matter. I'm from the Eye. I would like to ask you some questions without the probe. Today you said things at the trial that stimulated my curiosity—"

The man interrupted. "You have come from the satellite for the trial?"

"Yes."

"Then you are the Marker."

I hesitated for a moment before answering, thinking that neither would cooperate further if I told the truth. But I decided to be straightforward anyhow. "Yes, I carry the sacred Instruments of Justice."

I expected at least a slight shudder from both, but the images remained motionless, reminding me of the woman's unusual courage in the courtroom. "My services may not be required."

"Please," the woman said, her beguiling voice distorted by the audio. "We are not children. We are fully aware of why you are here and your role."

I was moved by her dignified stoicism. I tried to clear my throat.

The man said, "Ask your questions."

I decided to reserve the personal inquiry until last. "I've listened to your book on audio-disc, and it's unsettling, because you're suggesting the end of the Church. How can you possibly foresee something so, so horrible?"

The man chuckled, the audio distorting it, making it into an evil cackle. I stiffened, offended by the reaction.

"Actually," he said, his tone serious, "the book will contribute to the salvation of man."

Salvation? A book, other than the Bible, contributing to the salvation of man? Perhaps the Bishop was correct about these two.

"You are turning young people from the Church with this, this…book, and you dare to call it salvation? Have you no conscience, man?"

"Oh, we have a conscience, Brother, and that is why we are in trouble with your church."

"You do?" I said hoarsely, overcoming tightness in my throat, a growing annoyance at his mocking tone. "As Symbolist leaders you are directing non-defective young people into your movement, to face a life of hardship outside the Shields. They forfeit all opportunity to study on the Eye, and for what? Oh, I remember from the discs: Freedom. Right? Freedom to starve, freedom to have defective children, freedom to live wretched short lives in hopeless squalor and disease. And this is the morality of your conscience?"

Silence.

Then the woman spoke slowly, and the filter of my mind screened away the tinny echo, her voice coming to me as a gentle, soft whisper. "A free life is the only life worthy of a human being. That which is not free is not responsible, and that which is not responsible is not moral. In other words, freedom is the only condition permitting moral development."

"T-That is Symbolist propaganda," I stammered.

"No," she answered back, "that was written many years before your satellite was even launched."

"Written?" My annoyance with the man turned to anger at both, and I blurted out, "And I quote from
MOSES:
'If any man worships the symbol, he shall receive the Mark, and he shall drink of the wrath of God, an outcast, no rest day or night.'"

Silence, the terrible threat hanging heavy between us.

My silly puffed-up anger disappeared like the air from a popped balloon. And I felt a sincere sense of remorse for my cruel outburst. I offered an apology, and decided to shift the questioning. "There are some strictly personal questions, if you care to answer?"

"Ask and we'll decide," the man said bluntly, his tone still defiant even with the audio distortions

"Well," I began, staring up at the two figures on the screen, carefully constructing my question, "many years ago in old San Fran in the CFE Child Care Center I knew a boy whose parents disappeared on a trip to Couver like yourselves…" I paused and swallowed, working up moisture in my mouth. "He was ten, unbruised and he, he, I know he loved his parents very much. Did you once have a son?"

There was no answer for a few moments, then the woman responded with a question, "What happened to this boy, your friend, after he was taken from his parents?"

"He passed the tests, physical and mental with the highest marks."

"And after that?"

"He went to live at the Eye for training in the Order of Mark. He is now a valuable, responsible member of the CFE—"

"We had no son," the man snapped, a sharp edge to his tone.

Why was he so bothered by this question about a son? I asked myself. Could he be lying? I glanced down at the probe console, for a moment considering forcing some answers.

No, I decided. Skilled probing by Caretakers had revealed little political information. I probably could force no more personal information. And besides why would they lie about something like this, so long ago? They knew their fate now. There was nothing they could gain by hiding something so trivial.

I shifted my thoughts, no longer containing my anger at their defiant blasphemies…These two were indeed dangerous enemies of the Church, as the Bishop had suggested.

I turned my back on their sea-like images, and without another word I left the Sen-Dep area.