Chapter 7 - One Execution Too Many
The killing chambers are quiet when Claire and I arrive at Ensign McBride’s register. We are running out of condemned stock, and so the schedule of our murder dwindles.
I speak when I notice Ensign McBride’s fingers stop dancing across her keyboard. There’s no need for me to wait and make her look up into my face.
“Claire Amos.”
“Killing chamber twenty-three.”
Naturally, Claire hesitates to follow, and I feel her body for the first time pull against my prodding. And then, the sirens again sing. The sirens have prepared for Claire a melody no less wonderful than any other song they have performed for the condemned. The sound of harps fills my ears. The warmth of those notes pulls me forward as well. I release my grip on Claire’s elbow, and she drifts towards the door of her assigned killing chamber without hesitating any longer. She can resist the music no better than any of the prior prisoners to have listened to the sirens when they faced the moment of their death.
“They’re lovely creatures, aren’t they Gunner?”
Claire takes a moment to simply listen before she opens the door and steps into her last chamber. A trio of sirens wait for her. The aliens stand before strange instruments whose framework of hammers and strings reminds me of large looms. Color of lavenders and pinks pulsate upon those instruments’ strings, winking in and out in synchronization to the sirens’ own flickering forms. I’ve never seen those instruments the sirens’ slender hands reach out to strum. I wonder how many instruments the sirens have crafted and mastered.
“Do they play that song for anyone else, Gunner?”
I peek into Claire’s eyes and see them aglow. “They play no melody twice.”
I want to lose myself in the sirens’ music, but I must turn my attention away from the melody in order to attend to the needs of Claire’s killing. The preparations for her execution are not very imaginative, certainly when compared to such exotic deaths as those that these chambers have witnessed. A gurney has been rolled into the center of the chamber, surrounded by a pair of IV stands and a heart-rate monitor. The civilian witness, another gameshow champion, wants Claire Amos killed through lethal injection. Jackson Hardcase attempted to persuade that witness to demand a more entertaining method of execution, but when the witness stood firm in his resolve, that gameshow host and television producer was forced to accept such a simple delivery of death no matter that lethal injection would surely little interest the audience. The witness’ final stipulation was that he would supply the deadly blend of chemicals to be administered to Claire. The gameshow accepted.
I’m relieved that I will not be forced to wear any silly executioner’s costume from some historic period of butchery. I’m happy that I will not need to aim and fire a gun. I will not need to wield a sword or a club. I will not need to play with fire, and I will not need to operate any elaborate mechanism. The coroner will administer a pair of IVs into Claire’s arms. I will only need to nod. I will only need to watch Claire Amos fall asleep before I watch her breathing cease. I’m very happy that, for at least one killing, we will not have to again wallow in so much blood.
The sirens continue to play their looms. Their song lifts and falls. This particular melody grabs hold of me, and I strain to concentrate as I help Claire recline onto the gurney. My poor focus causes my fingers to slip as I bind the constraints upon her ankles and wrists. All the cameras I despise hum around me as Jackson Hardcase is no doubt pacing in his production studio back upon earth, no doubt anxious to see if such an unimaginative execution dips his gameshow’s ratings as he fears.
My last task is to attend to the civilian witness. I must finally approach that individual who has earned his right to sit in the chamber and define the nature of Claire’s death simply by winning stunts conducted during a game. The man in that chair doesn’t turn his face away from mine. Instead, he grins. His face is plump from the flesh collected in middle age, and I smell the strong scent of his cologne several feet before reaching him. He raises a hand to beckon me to him, waving to entice me to move more quickly. That witness is the first among all of those who’ve sat in that chair not to balk at the sight of me.
“I say, sir, a little hustle my way.”
I smile at the witness’ urgency. Though Claire’s killing is designed to be more subtle than most, I suspect that the man sitting in that luxurious witness chair will break just like the others who float all the way out to Ganymede to take part in our execution machine.
“Is anything missing from your expectations?” I ask. “Let us know if anything might not be to your liking. There’s still time to make any needed modifications.”
The man squints towards the gurney. “Has anyone tampered with the solution in the IVs I’ve provided? It’s very important that the solution hasn’t been hampered with in any way.”
“We’ve in no way changed your solution.” I nod. “We’re very careful to meet the terms as outlined by the stipulations the gameshow delivers to us.”
“I’m sure you are. But it’s very important to me to make sure.”
“We’ve changed nothing.” I vow. “Everything’s according to your plan.”
The man leans back in his chair. “Then this should be a fine show for the folks watching back home. Jackson Hardcase just doesn’t understand. But he will. Perhaps, tonight’s killing might finally give us all a little more of the catharsis we’ve all hungered for since we lost the Diana.”
“Perhaps.”
The witness stares at my broken face. “You don’t believe it will. How many killings have you witnessed? Hundreds? Thousands? More? I’d like to know if you think killing this woman will bring us any justice.”
I shrug. “If no one feels our killing has delivered any justice yet, I don’t see how one more execution is going to change anything.”
The man nods. The flesh beneath his chin shakes. “Well then, at least I can say I’ve had the chance to hear the sirens. Everything they say about them is true. I almost envy the woman for having such a song composed and played just for her.”
That siren song draws to a close, the last notes lingering in the chamber after the alien musicians’ slender fingers withdraw from the instrument looms. Claire rests calmly on the gurney, and I look to make sure the witness is paying attention. I anticipate the first dose of the solution to be injected into Claire’s veins will put her into a soft sleep, much like was likely done when Claire was sent into dream when loaded aboard that tiny capsule a space marshal later found floating on our systems’ outskirts. I hope we can finish this killing while the sirens’ song still resonates in her dreams. I hope we can send Claire out from this world without giving terror the opportunity to grab at her heart. Everything appears ready, and I nod to the coroner, whose able fingers swab Claire’s arm in alcohol, whose able fingers quickly and precisely plunge the needle into Claire’s veins.
The coroner turns to me. “The saline is getting into her blood just fine. Give the word, and I’ll administer the solution.”
I peek at the witness, and I see him lean forward in his chair.
“Go ahead.”
I hold my breath, and nothing happens for several minutes after the coroner releases the toxic solution into Claire’s blood. I watch her green eyes, expecting them to peacefully close. But it doesn’t go like I hope. Claire’s body suddenly lifts from the gurney as her back arches. Her hands clench into fists. She shakes violently on the gurney, straining her restraints. I hurry to hold her down, but my remaining arm lacks the strength to pin her against the gurney. The coroner grunts as he struggles to help. Claire gurgles. I hear a choking sound within her throat as her neck cranes in a silent, suffocated scream. Her eyes are staring wide at the ceiling, and I see pools of blood gathering in the whites to surround her green pupils. The poison works through her system, turning her veins so black that I can see them snaking just below her skin. Claire shakes against the restraints. Blood runs from her mouth as h
er teeth clench and sever her tongue.
I hear the cameras humming behind me. I feel the cameraman wheel his lens directly over my shoulder to capture every second of Claire’s thrashing. I wonder what aspect of the prisoner’s hurt is currently focussed through that camera’s lens. I wonder how the home audience is responding to the unfolding suffering.
Blood is running from Claire’s eyes and ears. Fluids wet the gurney, and my heart breaks when whatever dignity we may have hoped to give Claire in her execution is robbed from us. I look up at the witness in his chair. What kind of solution did that foul alchemist supply to our killing machine? The man grins from ear to ear. He stands and applauds. He does not cower in fear at the sight of this death. He does not break. He cheers for Claire’s hurt.
I’ve seen too much on Ganymede. My discipline shatters. I unholster the sidearm from my hip and don’t hesitate to end Claire’s suffering. Turning from the gurney, I notice the sirens’ masks considering it all, their hands far from their instruments. As always, I can read no emotion upon such decorated masks, but I sense a sadness upon those unseen faces. I don’t put my sidearm away. Instead, I take three quick steps towards that witness who frowns at my bone face. He is not scared of my features. I don’t believe he’s terrified of my gun as I center its sights squarely upon his forehead. I think he’s only angry that I have delivered a premature end to Claire’s writhing pain.
The gun explodes several times in my hand. Blood, gore and pulp are all that remains of that witness’ face.
The trio of sirens vanish in the next wink. The cameras are still humming by the time the other sentries tackle me.
Only now, do I understand what I hear buried in the sirens’ song. Those of the Black Sun Temple only got half of it right. The sirens will indeed deliver our doom. But no alien race condemns us. We condemn ourselves.
* * * * *