All My Sins Remembered

  “It’s a myth.”

  “It is not. I’ve been there.”

  “Really.” He sat down again, propping his chin on a cupped palm. “Did you find it amusing? Instructive?”

  “You might find it instructive. No form of animal life more complex than a cockroach survived. The cockroaches have become very large and aggressive.”

  “You’re saying that the Confederación would be so out-raged over our killing a very few people that they would murder an entire planet.” He laughed artificially.

  “The Confederación doesn’t murder.” Oh really? “They released a virus into October’s atmosphere that sterilized every female from fish to mammal.”

  “So they only murdered the ones who lived long enough to starve.”

  “They supplied food. As a gesture. Men can live on plants and bugs.”

  Julio yawned. “I wouldn’t mind being sterile. Three children are sufficient.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  He smiled. “Don’t be insulting.”

  They sat silently for a minute. “When do I see el Alvarez?”

  “He is very busy. You may see him before you die.”

  “You have a very primitive sense of theater, Julio.”

  The orderly returned with six armed men and the two interrogators, their arms tied behind their backs. The two tenientes led the procession, erect but very pale.

  The orderly handed Julio a thick-bladed butcher’s knife. “Good morning, Bernal. Romulo.” He slapped the handle in his palm rhythmically.

  One answered weakly; the other opened his mouth and his teeth chattered.

  “Which of you pulled this gentleman’s teeth? It would please him to see your throat cut.”

  “I would be satisfied,” Otto said, “to see them lose a few teeth themselves.”

  The one who had spoken earlier said, “We both did, Commandante.”

  “Hmm.” Julio looked thoughtful. “Orderly… see if there are pliers in that desk over there.”

  He returned with a chromed surgical instrument that looked as if it might do the job. “Will this do, Commandante?”

  “We can only try. Romulo, you may test the equipment on Bernal.” He gestured to the orderly. “Untie him.”

  The interrogator took the tool and faced his partner, talked to him the way one talks to a child. “Open your mouth, Bernal.” And whispering: “Be brave.”

  Bernal gave one small cry of pain when the first tooth came out. Romulo looked at Rubirez, who nodded, and he bent to take out another.

  “Well?” he said to Otto.

  “I’ve displayed my good faith. Now will you answer some questions?”

  “You’ve displayed something. No.”

  He nodded, blankly. “Orderly. Call the prison compound and tell them I want Señor de Sanchez and Señorita Eshkol.”

  Bernal was losing his third tooth, not making a sound although tears coursed down his face. Rubirez said, “Oh—Romulo—”

  The man looked up and didn’t even have time to blink. The butcher knife hit with enough force to cut his neck half through. The soldiers and Otto flinched at the sudden spray of blood. Rubirez snatched the dying man by the hair and jerked him down, then hacked savagely twice, then gave a third studied blow that separated the head from the body. He held it dripping over Otto’s bed.

  “One more?” There was absolutely no expression on his face; no emotion in his voice.

  Otto choked back sudden bile. “No. That was an adequate demonstration… of…”

  “My ‘primitive sense of theater’?” One of the soldiers ran for the door. “Private Rivera. Come back or you will be punished.” The private slowed for a second and ran on. The Commandante returned his gaze to Otto, but didn’t say anything. The only sounds were the private’s echoing footsteps and a faint rustling sound that Otto knew was the headless body, moving. Bernal fainted.

  “You may all leave. Take this garbage with you.”

  A dead man is much heavier than a live one. It took only one man to carry the unconscious Bernal; four to drag out the body. The orderly carried the dull-staring head to the door, set it outside, and posted himself. He told one of the men carrying the body to come back for the head.

  “Now, Colonel. Shall we try to get down to business again?”

  “If you think you’ve impressed me, you’re wrong. I’ve known many ruthless men.”

  The Commandante moved to the side of Otto’s bed and laid the point of the knife against his throat. Blood still dripped from the blade and his right arm was hot crimson from the hand to the elbow.

  “I’m getting tired of your machismo, Colonel.” Otto could move his head but knew it would be useless.

  “Really? I’m vastly entertained by yours.” The Commandante, livid, jerked the knife away. Having lived to see that expression on Julio’s face, Otto knew he would live as long as el Alvarez ordered it.

  The orderly escorted Rachel Eshkol and Octavio de Sanchez into the room, then returned to his post at the doorway. Rachel was white-faced but composed; Otto assumed that the head had been removed from the corridor. Both of the prisoners were clad in baggy gray fatigues and had their hands tied behind their backs. Octavio still looked very used, but Rachel hadn’t yet been harmed. She gasped when she saw Otto.

  “I wanted the two of you to see what we’ve done to your prime operator,” the Commandante said, “so you won’t have any illusions about your own diplomatic immunity.”

  “I haven’t doubted for a second that you can kill us,” Eshkol said through clenched teeth.

  “You are all so full of heroism,” Julio said, fingering the edge of the bloody knife. The woman saw it for the first time and stifled a scream. “So little perturbed at the prospect of—”

  “What has he been doing to you?” She stared at the blood spattered on Otto’s bedclothes.

  “Nothing to him, young lady,” the Commandante said. “He asked for a man’s life, and I gave it to him.”

  “Is that true?” she asked Otto.

  “No.”

  “But it is,” said Julio.

  “You two could get along very well together,” she said bitterly. “You are a matched set.”

  Julio laughed pleasantly. “Women have no appreciation for politics.” He addressed Octavio. “Isn’t that right, Teniente?”

  Octavio looked at him uncertainly. “This means…”

  “That’s right.” He stepped behind the battered man and sawed through his bonds. “The masquerade is over.

  “Te presented he said formally, “Teniente Octavio Madero. He has been a good soldier under my command for over five years.”

  “Octavio,” Rachel said with a falling tone.

  “The obvious,” said Otto. “That clears up a few things.”

  “Indeed,” the Commandante said. To Eshkol: “Now you have no one. Your colonel is a brutal sadist and your confidante a traitor. We’ll allow you a few days to think this over. While we decide what to do with you.”

  He called the orderly over. “Orderly, this man holds the same rank as you—” indicating Octavio—“but I want you to be his orderly for a week or so. While he recovers from indignities suffered for the good of the Plan.”

  The Commandante glared at Otto. “And in spite of your ministrations, I have my old orderly back. My trusted Ramos Guajana. His recovery saved you from a most vile death.”

  Julio dismissed Octavio and the orderly with a wave of his hand. He took Eshkol’s shoulder and gently pushed her toward the door.

  “After you, my dear.”

  8.

  Medicine on Selva was only about a half century out of date; in four days Otto was able to walk with little difficulty and his fingers and arm were knitted. As a sign of his continuing clinical progress, they put him back in the jail.

  It was a different cell. There was no window and the door was a solid sheet of thick steel that slid silently on hidden bearings. Indirect lighting and freshly stuccoed walls. The only smell was a
faint memory of disinfectant; there was a tidy commode in one corner, next to a basin. The double bunk was smooth plastic with fresh linens; Rachel Eshkol lay on the bottom bunk, studying the underside of the top one. She didn’t make any sign of noticing as the door slid shut behind Otto and locked with a heavy click.

  “Our quarters have improved,” he said.

  “Have they treated you well?” he said.

  “I know you detest me,” he said. She continued to stare straight ahead and Otto crossed the room, tested out the water faucets.

  “Which one are you?” she asked.

  “All Otto McGavin. I haven’t been Guajana since they started torturing me. The overlay can’t have worn off so soon; it’s never happened before, but evidently there’s an escape reaction. Since the overlay no longer—”

  “If you’re that one,” she said, still not looking at him, “tell me what was the first thing you did when I turned on the lights in your room at the Vista Hermosa.”

  He thought. “I checked the swords on the wall.”

  “All right.” She swung slowly to a sitting position and looked directly at him. “Yes, our quarters have improved, and no, they haven’t treated me well. And I can’t detest you very much any more because there are too many others. Myself. Rubirez. Others.”

  Otto sat down on the commode and started to say something.

  “I hate myself for what I’ve done to the Confederación and to this beautiful planet and even to you. In my ignorance I betrayed the Confederación and doomed this planet to the fate of October. And brought about your death, I’m sorry.” All this in a calm monotone.

  “I’m not dead yet.” The words sounded false to him.

  “Yes, you are. So am I. We walk and talk and yet we are dead and already starting to rot.”

  She had the helpless, dull look of a mortally injured animal, but there was no mark on her. “What have they done to you?” he asked gently, thinking he knew.

  “Really,” she said, standing slowly, steadying herself with a hand on the upper bunk, “it’s not important.” She pulled the drawstring on her trousers and they rustled down her flanks. With surprisingly nimble fingers she undid the snaps of her tunic and shrugged it off, then stepped out of the trousers. There was a little spark of defiance in the way she faced Otto; legs apart, fists clenched at her sides—her body was as perfect in shape and tonus as Otto had imagined it, but from ankles to shoulders was a mottled pattern of violets and blues and browns; hardly a square centimeter of her skin, where it had been covered by clothing, was not bruised. She turned to show Otto that they had done the same on her back and buttocks and the backs of her legs; all except for an exact area over each kidney. They hadn’t wanted to kill her.

  “Every day. Sometimes three or four times.” Her voice cracked and she folded her arms on the upper bunk and buried her face but didn’t cry. “Rubirez and that… Octavio man or Guajana. Sometimes the jailer or some stranger.” Otto crossed and picked up her tunic and tried to drape it over her shoulders, but it wouldn’t stay, so one at a time he took her hands and guided them into the sleeves of the tunic. She sat heavily on the bed and winced, then folded her hands in her lap and slumped, staring at the floor. She continued; “They—they put handcuffs on my wrists and my, my ankles—and—” sharp intake of breath.

  “Please,” Otto said. “Don’t talk about it.” He stooped and picked up the gray trousers. His cheek came close enough to her that he imagined he felt the delicate heat radiating from her breast. “Put these on.” He wanted to be gentle and fatherly to her, she seemed so little and so broken, but his body wasn’t cooperating.

  “No,” she said despondently. She stretched out on the lower bunk, her legs slightly parted and raised. She ran a finger lightly along the inside of her thighs; not in erotic gesture, but the way one keeps touching a persistent pain. “Go ahead. I owe you this much. One more won’t make any difference.”

  “I can’t, Rachel.” It was the first time he had ever used her first name.

  The door slid open and Rachel tried to cover herself with her hands.

  “Well, well,” said the jailer. “You didn’t waste any time.” Otto was halfway to him when he saw the pistol and halted. “I’d think you would’ve have enough of that.”

  He threw a bundle of white clothing at Otto. “Put on these, both of you. Now.” Otto separated the smaller items and gave them to Rachel. She turned her back to the jailer and dressed. Otto stood as close to the jailer as he thought prudent and threw his old tunic and trousers at him as he took them off. The jailer jeered and made some pointed remarks about Otto’s anatomy.

  The jailer gathered up the gray clothing. “You’re going to have visitors soon. Try to behave until then.”

  They sat on the bed together. Otto almost reached out to pat her hand; didn’t. “They’ve never given me a white outfit before,” she said. “Maybe this is the way they dress you for public execution. In a way I hope; so.” Otto knew that if she were going to be publicly executed, she would be dressed only in her bruises. But their inevitable executions were going to be private affairs.

  They sat for what seemed like a long time, neither wanting to talk, lost in private thought. Otto wondered, not for the first time, where along the line he had lost the fear of death; the respect for death. Was it just part of his conditioning? That would seem anti-survival, and prime operators were too valuable to the TBII for them to program out the will to live. Maybe it was simply that familiarity breeds contempt.

  With some effort of will he thought back to his youth and childhood, trying to recall some incident, some bit of knowledge or disillusionment that eventually led to the invisible army he had joined; that led to this jungle planet and sharing a white mausoleum with—he analyzed the brittle affection he felt for Rachel Eshkol and knew pretty exactly which part of it was sexual, which part was just the somatic sympathy of one injured body toward another, which was atonement for the way he had acted as Ramos, which was retroactive yearning for other women he had loved or had thought he had loved at one time. And some dark growling part of it was probably the cornered beast’s obeying an instinct to take one more chance on the procreative raffle before it was too late (he remembered the first time he had seen the corpse of a man burned to death and his horrified fascination with the corpse’s extreme state of sexual excitement; was it an instinctive antepenultimate urging or a simple matter of increased gas pressure in the corpse’s circulatory system?—he had always meant to ask someone who would know and now he never would). He remembered a boy named Otto McGavin at temple trying his best to meditate while the acrid incense tried to tickle him into sneezing and what a hell of an Anglo-Buddhist he had turned out to be, killing for a living and facing death with no desire for spiritual preparation beforehand—or was that what he was doing? No. What Otto was doing was the closest thing to panic he could allow himself, in the absence of immediate physical danger.

  When he was twenty Otto had entertained a conceit about “dying well.” He tried to remember how that felt.

  The door slid open and nine people came in, in file. The first was Commandante Rubirez. The next was an old man. Then Ramos Guajana, followed by a squad of six soldiers. Everybody was armed except the old man and one of the soldiers, whom Otto recognized as Private Rivera, the boy who had run from Rubirez’s grisly demonstration. Behind a transparent dressing on the side of his head was a fresh stump where his right ear had been.

  The old man looked familiar, and Otto remembered who he was just before Rubirez introduced him. Strange that that should have faded.

  “El Alvarez wants a word with you two.” He turned to the old man. “One last time, sir. This man is the most dangerous, desper—”

  “Enough, Julio. Just leave me your pistol.”

  He almost said something but instead handed over the gun. “At least let me handcuff them.” The old man nodded. Rubirez handcuffed Otto’s right wrist to Rachel’s left. Then everybody except el Alvarez filed out and the
door clicked shut behind them.

  El Alvarez looked around, decided against the indignity of sitting on the toilet, and stood opposite the two, leaning against the wall, the pistol pointed loosely in their direction.

  “I asked that this cell be built twenty-some years ago. This is the only cell in the complex that has no cameras and no microphones hidden in it.”

  “Or had none twenty years ago,” Otto said.

  He shook his head. “I had a trusted person go over it thoroughly last week.”

  “You have things to tell us,” Rachel asked, “that you don’t wish known by your own espionage people?”

  El Alvarez didn’t answer directly. “How many people on Selva do you think know about the Plan?”

  “That would be hard to say,” Rachel answered. Everybody seems to have heard rumors.”

  He nodded and smiled. “That’s part of the Plan itself. Actually, I suppose only one out of a hundred or so Selvans knows there is a truly concrete Plan. Most of them belong to Clan Alvarez or are powerful members of their own clans. We haven’t yet made a public statement about the Plan because we don’t want to encourage responsible public debate.” He paused expectantly, but neither of them said anything.

  “I believe your Confederación doesn’t think it could possibly work.”

  “That’s—”

  “Quiet!” Otto snapped.

  “I’ve read your orders, Colonel,” he said wearily. “The ones that were in Ambassador Eshkol’s safe. In that regard you have no secrets to protect.

  “At any rate, the Confederación is quite right. Oh, we could deliver a few bombs to Grünwelt; we could destroy a few cities and millions of people, perhaps. But I know and you know that war is more than just piracy on a large scale, which is what the Plan distills to. We simply don’t have the economic resources, not by a factor of a thousand, to maintain a war with Grünwelt—even if the Confederación were not to intervene. We could start a war, but Griinwelt would finish it at its leisure.”

  “I don’t see why you’re telling us all this,” Otto said.

  “It will become clear.”