Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet

  Airship SM-37 from Fort Gen, Kamchatka landed at exactly 0325. A frigid draft blew in through the maglev tunnels of Milidome 3rd.

  A day come and gone and many fruitless hours of contemplation spent, gazing out from the ship deck to the horizon, waiting for the aimless synapses to ignite a thought that might ignite a memory, and not a single memory roused. It was indisputable. Ninety days of the world’s subsistence had been lifted clean from his mind. On rare occasions, dreams could kindle thoughts once lost to the mind, and he thought to brave his nightmares in the hope that he might unearth some lost memory in the hermeneutic of a dream. To no avail. Sleep was impossible; all the more still when all one had for comfort was the aching thought of having left a wounded and defenceless child all by herself in the midst of a warzone. By the time he had landed in Durkheim, he was ready to collapse from exhaustion.

  The cold waft of air swelled as the maglev rolled up to the platform and rumbled to a stop. He raised his coat collar, pocketed his hands and settled his grip on the blade. The doors hissed open. A mass of low-caste martials boarded the empty cars, and he jammed in among them.

  The automated voice announced the next stop:

  “Outer-Durkheim 4th.”

  The doors shut, and the maglev took off with seamless velocity.

  The maglev passed right past Sixth Echelons and his eyes zipped from left to right as the maglev flew past. According to the earliest messages on his Nexus account, his new abode was somewhere on the other side of the city, in an area called “Haven,” one of the more obscure districts in the metropolis. He did not know the address. His legs were about to give way under him from exhaustion.

  He got off the maglev at Outer Durkheim 4th and took the capsule line down to first stratum above the lower city. On a dark side street off the main avenue, he stopped outside a narrow, terraced building, and the sign over the doors flashed: “Motley Marionettes” – a low-caste bordello. When he walked through the doors, two low-end, auburn-haired, gum-chewing walkers sitting in the dim-lit lobby turned their heads to the entrance with interest.

  He paid the full price of eight ducats for a walker and room, and when the mute, wrinkled and dour old inkeeper behind the desk proffered one of her women, he quickly refused and asked for cigarettes, to which her response was a curled lip, and she tossed the key on the desk without a word.

  “Dregs…” he heard one of the walkers murmur as he walked away.

  Room 5 smelled like concentrate of rose with a hint of peroxide and venereal body odour. He locked the door. A GMD blared across the street below. The lower strata were always louder and the air was more polluted. The chronometer on the bedside showed 0430 hours. The mattress was worn and concave. When he lay down, he felt his weight press against the swellings in his flesh.

  His eyes shut instantly.

  He found himself plunged into the Storozh Camp in Kamchatka: myriads of undead skeletal creatures ambling around – diseased, emaciated and murderous with hunger, crawling in a vast cesspool of the dead and dying – and the sky was blotted out behind the high surrounding walls and his mind’s eye settled on the girl and followed like a spirit as she wandered alone, scampering to and fro, recoiling from the reaches of a swarm of bony, bloody members until she curled up into a dark corner and cried her eyes out, and the cries rose to shrieks to wake the dead.

  Saul woke with the cries.

  A streetlight flickered in through the window. It was still dark. The media screen was still blaring. He thought the noise had woken him prematurely, until he turned over and looked up at the chronometer. 0007 … of the following day.

  He blinked and twitched to life, turned his legs agonisingly over to his bedside and ground his eyes. The pain in his sinews was acidic. He fished his cell out of the coat pocket, squinted and waited for the blur in his vision to pass.

  No messages. No missed calls.

  For a long time, he sat in a daze, staring at the vacant screen before coming to his feet, slipping his arms into his coat sleeves and raising the collar. Just as he was about to slip the cell back into the inner pocket, the screen flashed.

  The cell started to ring.

  He gazed at the Caller ID flashing on the display and slowly lifted the receiver to his lips.

  “Haven District: The Grove; 4th Street off Orion Avenue.”

  The line cut.

  The dour old woman at the counter had since changed to a heavy, steely-eyed low-caster. His head was thrown back and a mess of auburn-red hair was nestled in his groin when Saul passed and dropped the money for the extra night on the counter on his way out.

  The night was cold, the streets were quiet and lined with thick snow and the cold oozed painfully into the bones. His breath was a dense vapor marking his way under the alley lights.

  He stopped at a nearby teller machine. A troop of SGs passed across the street and he peered surreptitiously over his shoulder. When his balance flashed across the screen, he saw that his account had been credited – spoils from the last assignment. He keyed in a figure and the machine regurgitated the cash in two thin stacks of bound, blue dimitar notes.

  He was the first to alight when the maglev stopped in Haven Main Station and a capsule ride later, he was standing at the crossroads of Orion Avenue and Victory Lane, the mechanised foot traffic nudging past. He looked up. The snow began to drizzle like stardust through the multi-coloured lights from street-signs and billboards. A row of autocabs were parked, waiting for fares. He boarded one of the driverless cabs and fed 30 ducats through the slot.

  “The Grove, 4th Street.”

  The doors closed with a pneumatic hiss and the autocab took off along the mechanised lane.

  The autocab stopped at the far end of the street, before the high, dark façade of a building set right on the very outskirts of the metropolis, where the city’s lights faded into the regions of Outer-Sodom. The panel on the side of the tower entrance read: “The Grove”.

  He stood at the mouth of a dark alley and waited, checking the time on his Nexus. Every 30 seconds or so, he would poke half his face out of the shadows. The street was empty. The darkness thickened, the light drizzle increased to a heavy snow and the cold spasms wound around his limbs like boa constrictors. He ached for a warm smoke. Two walkers appeared from around the corner and passed right in front of him. A minute later, a group of mid-caste martials walked by from the opposite direction, setting him more on edge.

  He checked the time again.

  Where is he…?

  At that moment, there came a rumble from the end of the street, followed by an approaching light extending over the dark street. He stepped out of the alley into the lights of an oncoming vehicle.

  A small truck, dented and browning with wear, tear and corrosion, stopped immediately with a squeak and a grind. The side windows were cracked and frosted up and steam poured out from every seam, and streamed from the exhaust in a thick smog. Some faded company logo on the side was spray-painted out, and the old hydro-motor coughed and gurgled as the reverse lights came on.

  He retreated back into the dark alley as the truck reversed with a steady beeping. When the front of the truck was securely hidden in the alley, it stopped. The headlamps switched off. The engine burbled to a long and constant hiss.

  He came up by the truck’s side just as the door on the driver’s side inched open. Three firm kicks marked with the words “Git – teh – fuck!” forced open the door on the driver’s side. The truck shook as the heavy figure clumsily dismounted and hobbled wearily toward him.

  “Top a’ th’ mornin’…”

  Duke’s voice was dry and dreary and his eyes narrowed with exhaustion. He coughed an old, hoarse smoker’s cough.

  “Ahhh, sh-sh-sh-sshhittte.”

  He removed the cigar from his teeth, shivered and blew a stream of smoke and vapor through pursed lips.

  “I am grateful for this,” said Saul.

  “Aye, well, dinna fash yerself n’ all…” Duke yawned his words.
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  Saul glanced up the narrow space between the side of the truck and the adjoining street and down the other side of the alley, where the path stopped at a dead end. They were alone, but he took no chances, keeping his voice low.

  “Any trouble with customs?”

  Duke puffed at the cigar, threw the nub into the snow, eyeing him sideways. “Aye,” he murmured with a trembling nod, “wee mae bi usual.” The old ex-patriot cupped his thick hands over his mouth, the steam seeped through his fingers and he rubbed his hands together. He hobbled up to the truck’s rear, pulled back on a slider on the side and hammered his fist against a switch.

  The shutter over the truck’s rear rose in jerks.

  When the shutter-motor spurted to a stop, old Duke took out a small torch and flashed the light over the inside of the carriage. The light passed over what appeared to be stacks of supplies for his dreg mess: vacuum-sealed food parcels, crates of ambrosia, medicines and cleaning supplies, all piled on top of each other. Three large crates were buried somewhere behind the wall of supplies, occupying most of the space in the small carriage. The deck was covered with loose packages, bottles, empty cigar packs and other refuse.

  The old ex-patriot mounted the deck with a grunt and another string of mumbled curses. He swept all the loose clutter aside and genuflected, poking the torchlight between two stacks pressed against the inner walls of the freight carriage. He reached his hand in deep and pulled out one small, brown-packaged bundle, and then a second. Keeping his head low, he passed each of the brown packages to Saul, finally handing him the torch. “Ah’ll need both hands fer this,” he croaked.

  He flashed the light over the back of the truck and watched Duke clear the heap of supplies blocking the large crates at the front crates, growling with each heave and ho.

  After much effort, the bottom-most crate at the back of the truck was finally exposed. Duke stretched his old back out, took a deep, wheezing, foggy breath and leaned over by the side of the crate. His heavy fists clamped down hard on a lever and jerked; once, twice, thrice. On the third jerk, the lever gave way with a bang which echoed down the alley.

  There was a long, tense silence.

  Saul peered down the side of the truck into the side street. The torch light went out. The crate doors swung open. Next moment, something hurled from the darkness and landed straight in his arms with a whimper.

  Duke picked up the soiled blanket the girl had cast off in her flurry.

  Saul wrapped the mantle around her and the little fingers were icicles against the back of his neck. Her skin had paled with the freeze and the bindings on her reddened wounds were fraying and loose.

  Duke descended from the truck and was drawn in at once by the little figure.

  “Sure hope yeh know wha’ yer doin’ lad,” he sighed.

  Saul had been hoping the same thing from the moment he had shut the doors on the body box in Fort Gen and the truck carried her away, a hostage to fortune. She coughed wildly and he pressed her face gently against his shoulder to muffle the noise. She was cold as death, and shook terribly as the warmth settled in. Any longer and she would have succumbed to hypothermia.

  Duke sighed again and shook his head. “Yeh cannae be comin’ round th’ mess nae more,” he said. “No ava lad.”

  “I know.”

  “Ah don’ know yeh n’more,” said the ex-patriot severely. “Not after this.”

  “I understand.”

  Duke fell silent. His eyes were wide and his breath was heavy. “Aye… aye,” he said, nodding his head. He then turned his attention back to the girl, who meanwhile appeared to have fallen into a slumber. He came closer and gawped as one would at some incomparably precious object. “Where the ‘ell d’yeh find ‘er?” he gasped.

  “I do not remember.”

  Duke looked back into the truck. The open crate was about the size of a small refrigerator, with very little discernible cracks or seams for light or air to seep through. “Ne’r seen a crate li’ tha’ before.”

  “It is a body box. They use them to transport corpses and body parts from the warzones for strip-down. It was the only way to get her through the scans in customs.”

  “How lang she bin in tha’ thing?”

  “Two days.”

  “Shiite…”

  The girl coughed and shivered, holding the blanket close to her chin. Her eyelids were heavy, but the cold denied her sleep.

  “Puir lass must be sair hungert … Hold a minute, I mightae ‘ave summat.”

  Duke hobbled to the front of the truck and disappeared for about a minute. In the meantime, Saul crammed one of the brown bundles into his only vacant pocket. When old Duke returned, he was holding half a large bar of dark chocolate. He held the chocolate bar out in the air and when the little head rose, the big, pearlescent eyes widened ravenously.

  “Take it.”

  As soon as he gave the word, the girl snatched the bar, tore off the wrapping and assailed the contents, gasping and munching intermittently. He stretched his right hand to reach into his left pocket and drew a small pile of banknotes and held the money out to old Duke. “You have done more than I deserve,” he said. “I may not see you again.”

  “Yeh got a mouth teh feed yerself now, lad,” said Duke. “Dinnae ye worry ‘bout us n’ more.”

  The old x-patriot was set in his ways. He tucked the money into his pockets.

  The two men stood staring at one another. When Saul slowly raised an open hand, old Duke caught it immediately and held tight.

  “I never told you my name,” said Saul.

  Old Duke chuckled.

  “Dinnae ask, dinnae tell,” he replied, slowly letting go. “Fare thee well, Martial… Guid luck.” He turned, punched the switch on the side of the truck and limped away as the shutter came down.

  The driver’s door screeched shut, the engine griped to a start and gurgled. He pulled out of the alley and trundled on into the hoary night. The girl fell asleep in his arms.

  “Wake up.”

  Little Naomi’s eyelids prized open as he lowered her gently to the floor. They stood before a large double-door at the tower’s peak and he brought the right side of his face up to the circular recess on the door’s side. There was a bright flash and the door unlocked and opened.

  Confronted with a wall of darkness, he instinctively held the girl back and edged through the doorway. The moment he crossed the threshold, lights occurred from the deep, one after the other. The light illuminated a palatial foyer ending at a towering wall of crystal-clear glass, and the space between was decked with mosaics of parquetry, walled with stone as radiant as alabaster and furnished with velvet, and a spiral staircase joined two floors. At the far end of the foyer, a big screen switched on by itself and began broadcasting the latest news from the global media. A blue flame swayed and danced in a crystal firebox. The clouds passed and the rim of a waxing crescent moon glimpsed through the skylight.

  Daunted by the opulence of the place, he momentarily stood back from the threshold. Meanwhile, little Naomi, beckoned by the warmth, drifted in and leaned her forehead sleepily against his leg. She could barely stand.

  “Can I sleep now?” she yawned.

  “Not yet.”

  She was covered in filth from the journey. Her wounds were discoloured and the bindings were loose.

  “I have to clean you,” he said.

  “Clean… you,” the girl parroted him with a yawn.

  He lifted her up and cradled her.

  As he walked about the house, he noticed a full ashtray on the table-top in front of the big holoscreen and a crystal glass with a dribble of scotch at the bottom. The satin of the drapery and upholstery radiated the smell of tobacco and the carpet was ruffled and folded over. Similar signs of habitation were scattered all around. And whilst he had no memory of the place, his legs seemed to know where to take him: The adjoining corridor, second door on the left.

  He opened the bathroom door and turned on the light, swept away a piec
e of walker’s lingerie and a bloody towel and sat the girl down gently on the basin counter. The cold surface sent a waking shiver through her.

  He unravelled the gauze from the pauper-like hands and assessed her wounds with a single glance. The deep cut on her upper arm would surely leave a scar. The abrasion on her face had browned, as did the scalding on her hands. The rest was mild bruising. He laid one of Duke’s brown packages on the counter, opened it, and inside, he found a box of saline, cotton swabs, wound-sealer, gauze, antiseptic, dermal repair and antibiotics. After looking over each item, he took the antiseptic and regarded her with some diffidence.

  “This may hurt a little,” he said, excusing himself in advance.

  The girl was quiet with submission and looked away with a cringe, braced for pain.

  Her tiny fingers juddered as he swabbed away at the deep cut with saline, dabbing off the dried blood and dirt. He shook with her every wince and sudden breath, her pain seeming to amplify in vicariousness.

  “You must wash before I can treat them,” he said, then paused, as though waiting for her approval.

  When she remained silent, he looked away uneasily and lifted her off the counter.

  The bathtub was a deep depression in an altar of white stone large enough for two adults, and he laid her down in the middle. He took the shower nozzle from the wall and when she tried to handle it, her burned hands recoiled in pain and the nozzle fell and rattled in the tub.

  “S-sorry,” she stuttered

  He picked the nozzle up from the tub with a sigh.

  “I will do it…”

  With strange discomfort he removed the soiled, baggy shirt from the little frame, and he could see the large, moonstone eyes seeming to judge him the whole time and as he did his utmost to avert his own eyes. He noticed, for the first time, the silver necklace and the large gold pendant hanging by her neck over the little concave dent in her chest.

  As soon as he raised his hand the girl, seeming to detect his intention, snatched the pendant in both hands.

  He stopped and gazed at her silently.

  “It is alright,” he assured. “I will give it back.”

  The little hands shook around the pendant as she looked, for a moment, as though she were about to cry again. She slowly and reluctantly let go.

  He undid the clasp and the necklace dropped into his hands with the pendant. He set the water temperature to 70 degrees and lowered the pressure, and when he looked up at the girl again, he froze.

  An odd hesitancy came over him as to what he was about to do, and he felt suddenly… unfit – overcome by a deep, distraught sense of contemptibility unlike anything he had ever felt before.

  “Saul.”

  He was finally drawn in to her eyes. The dread arrested him and his pulse escalated. He shook off his trance.

  “Saul…”

  “Hold out your arms.” His voice rose to a sudden pitch of hostility and the girl raised her arms out in the air at once.

  He waited for the strange rush of passion to pass then, slowly, poured the water over her head.

  The grime slipped off her in streams of brown. He lathered up the sponge to apply the soap carefully around the wounds: daubing, rinsing, daubing.

  “Turn.”

  And she turned, puffin-like, still holding her little arms in the air.

  After she was cleaned, her wounds covered and her hand bound with fresh gauze, he put a cotton sweater over her head, the only suitable item of clothing he could find. The oversized sweater hung over her left shoulder and draped down to her ankles. He carried a bundled blanket in one hand and led her by the other. The big screen switched off just as the latest announcements from the First Region Senior Commission began.

  “You can sleep here,” he said.

  The girl looked down at the sofa, then all around the towering space surrounding her, settling on the blue flame dancing in the glass box beside them, the long sleeves swaying at her sides. Finally, her large and troubled eyes turned toward him.

  “Where will you sleep?” she asked.

  “In the room at the end.”

  She turned to look at where he indicated, and then turned back again.

  “OK,” she said, quietly.

  She looked to be concealing a kernel of angst behind the shell of innocence.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  The little head shook.

  “… OK,” he nodded.

  The girl remained with her head tilted all the way back, gazing up at him, seeming to deliberate something. Then, next moment, she zipped forward and put her arms around him.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and let go of her embrace a moment later, leaving him fixed to the spot as though shot through the core.

  She tried to hop over the edge of the long settee with little snorts of struggle: one hop, two hop, three. When she botched her third attempt, he gave her a little nudge and she rolled deep into the couch, curling up like a woodlouse and shivering relief. He laid the blanket over her and, almost instantly, she fell asleep.

  The little snuffles got lower and lower as he he receded to the other end of the foyer, keeping his eyes fixed on her until she was out of sight, whereupon his knees gave way under him. He collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table, breathing deep breaths. His sinews were sandpaper, grating his bones. His heartbeats were little bombs exploding in his head. In the twilight of that brief reprieve, all the quandaries he had suppressed up until that point began to surface. What now?

  A civilian – in martial boarders. A civilian child – possibly the only child in the martial world.

  He took out all the contents of his coat pockets – first, the second brown bundle Duke had given him, then the second stack of notes and then his cell. He laid them all on the table. Finally, he took one last item out of his inner pockets and removed his coat and held it between his thumb and index finger. He set the empty, black neural canister down on the table directly in front of him and fixed it with an interrogator’s glower as he unwrapped the brown package and opened a fresh pack of cigarettes.

  He lit a cigarette, puffed, pulled the ash tray toward him and leaned back in his seat. He tipped the canister over and the little silver tablets rolled out over the table. An eel of anxiety squirmed in his gut.

  He was disturbed momentarily by the girl, coughing from across the room: croaky, hoarse coughs. She would need medicine. She was bound to need many things unprocurable in a martial city. He stood up and checked all of the kitchen cupboards and the pantry. After probing every nook and cranny and disposing of what was rotten, he had come upon enough food for maybe four days at the most. She would need clothes too. And that raised the fresh question as to where he was going to find clothes for a child.

  He took the last draw of his cigarette and sat back down, picked up his cell.

  I wonder…

  He scrolled through the short list of IDs in his contacts until he reached the desired name. Rather un-optimistically, he typed the message:

  “I need something. You are the only one who can help. I will pay any price. “The Grove”, 4th Street, Orion Avenue, Haven. Penthouse floor. I will wait for you.”

  C. 5: Day 470