by G. R. Lyons
Men screamed and scattered, and another shot tore through the silence of the evening. Benash ducked behind a narrow tree and glanced around.
Three more shots followed in rapid succession while Benash pulled out his own weapons and crept closer to the chaos, finally putting himself within firing range of the shooter.
A man in dust grey—a mere citizen—brandished a gun, frantically aiming it at different people as they screamed and ran for cover. Even in the moonlight, Benash could tell the man was shaking and sweaty, a look of utter panic on his face.
“Drop the weapon!” Benash shouted, aiming both his guns at the man.
The shooter whirled around and faced Benash, his arm trembling as he leveled the gun at Benash's chest.
“I said, drop it!”
The man shook his head rapidly, panting so hard that his response was unintelligible.
Behind the shooter, a citizen darted out from his hiding place, heading for better shelter, and the man with the gun startled at the motion, swinging around and firing at his fellow citizen. The shot struck the runner in the back, and all that followed was a series of clicks before Benash managed to react and fire at the shooter.
The empty gun hit the ground, and the man clapped a hand to his chest, blood spurting out around his fingers. He gaped at the wound, his expression almost comical as he took in the sight of his own blood, and collapsed in a heap on the ground.
Six other lifeless bodies surrounded him.
Panting, Benash lowered his weapons and surveyed the dismal scene. The scattered citizens had stopped screaming and slowly crept forward, eyes wide at the bloody tableau.
It was several minutes before any other officers arrived.
Suddenly exhausted, Benash slogged through the necessary reports, turning the scene over to the street patrol and describing what had occurred. By the time he was free to go, it was already past his usual hour for sleep.
Reaching his apartment, he eyed the bowl of reheated stew waiting for him on the table and walked right past it, even skipping his shower and crawling right into bed.
All through the night, the sound of gunfire tore through his dreams, making the chains that much more terrifying.
* * *
WHEN HE reached the prison the next morning, the shooting was all anyone could talk about.
“I heard you were there, Benash,” one officer asked, following him into his cell cavern.
“Yeah, what happened?” another asked.
Benash gave them a brief description of the night's events, and saw his fellow officers' jaws hit the floor.
“But citizens aren't allowed to have guns!” one man exclaimed.
“This is exactly the reason why we have gun laws!” another put in.
“He's right!” a third added. “Gun control is supposed to keep this kind of thing from happening.”
In the silence between comments, Benash heard Vorena burst out laughing.
The officers turned, looking offended, and watched as Vorena bent over, hugging herself and lost in her mirth.
“Oh, that was good,” she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “You guys are hilarious. Gun control to prevent shootings. Ha!”
The younger officers looked flabbergasted, glancing at one another and struggling to find something to say.
“Why is this funny?” Benash growled, leveling a glare at the woman. “We have these laws in place for everyone's protection, yet somehow criminals still manage to get their hands on weapons.”
“Exactly,” she said, still chuckling.
Benash huffed out a breath and crossed his arms over his chest. “Explain, woman.”
Vorena looked at him with a smirk and said, “Criminals will always find a way to do things, no matter what the law says. So when you take guns out of the hands of the people, it leaves them undefended from those who have the means and wherewithal to access weapons they're not supposed to have.” She paused, tilting her head to one side. “How many people got shot?”
“Six,” Benash bit off.
“Before you killed the shooter?”
“Yes.”
Vorena shook her head. “If citizens were allowed to be armed, that man would have known it was not in his best interest to go on a shooting rampage, since he would have known that any number of his fellows could have returned fire in a moment. Instead, he knew that only officers were armed, and since no officers were around, he was able to get away with murder. Had the citizens been armed—hells, had even one been armed—the shooter would have died before he could even think about which man to pick as his second victim. Arm the citizens and lives would have been saved.”
“You can't arm the citizens!” one officer cried, his face a mask of shock. “There would be war in the streets!”
“Is that so?” Vorena asked. “Think about it for a moment: If you know that others are probably armed, it's in your best interest not to draw your weapon on someone, since that person, or a third party, could easily draw his weapon on you in turn. Thus, you'd have to think long and hard about actually trying to shoot someone, as opposed to having practically free rein to kill as many people as possible before officers finally show up and shoot you.”
Low murmurs filled the silence after Vorena spoke, and one young officer stammered, “That…actually…that kind of makes sense–”
“Shut up, idiot!” another officer hissed, smacking the other on the arm. “She couldn't possibly know better than an Elder, and the Elders have said that gun control is necessary for everyone's safety.”
A few nodded in agreement, though many—officers and prisoners—still looked thoughtful and puzzled.
Feeling his own mind bombarded with conflicting thoughts, Benash clenched his hands into fists and growled, “Get back to your posts.”
The officers dashed away, shutting the door with a clang and leaving the cavern uncomfortably silent.
“And you,” he bit off, pointing a finger at Vorena. “You watch your mouth. This was no laughing matter.”
Vorena shrugged. “Is to me.” She held out her hands and hurried on before he could speak. “Don't get me wrong, I don't like killing and murder any more than the next guy, but just the fact that you actually think the laws are supposed to work! I'm sorry, but I find that hilarious.”
“Well, it wasn't!” Benash spat. “It was ugly and vile and should not have happened.”
Vorena raised an eyebrow at him, and calmly replied, “You're right. It should not have happened. Maybe you should have gotten there sooner.”
With that, she turned and sat down on her cot, leaned back against the wall, and closed her eyes. Benash fumed, staring at her, but found he couldn't think of a thing to say in response. Even though they went against everything he knew, somehow her words just made too much sense.
The rest of the day passed in awkward silence: Vorena studiously ignoring everyone and not saying a word, and Benash brooding at his post, glaring at any prisoner who dared to make a sound. As the hours went by, a part of Benash wanted to ask Vorena to continue the story she'd been telling, but he was still so confused and angry that he couldn't bring himself to utter the request.
Near the end of his shift, Benash got up and made a circuit of the room just for the sake of movement, filling up the time until he got to leave.
“Do you know what is the most beautiful thing in the world?”
Benash stopped at the sound of Vorena's voice and glanced through the bars, seeing the prisoner sitting on her cot. Her knees were drawn up, her head thrown back, and her eyes were closed as she spoke to him with a smile on her face.
“All things are equal,” he replied automatically. “There is nothing beautiful in the world.”
“Of course there is.”
“Such as?”
“A sunsrise.”
Benash turned to face her, though her eyes were still closed, and folded his arms across his chest as he asked, “And why is that?”
The prisoner grinned. �
�The start of a new day. A new opportunity. A new chance to act, to learn, to achieve. What could possibly be more beautiful?”
His lips parted, ready to respond, but the words died in his throat as a vision filled his mind. Seeing the pure smile on Vorena's face, the stone walls and cold bars melted away to reveal a lush hillside, the suns just peeking over the horizon, their combined light dancing over her joyful features. In the space of a moment, she was no longer filthy and clothed in prison rags, but glowing and clad in the blue and green garment from his dreams. Something inside him—mental or physical, he couldn't tell—knotted up with painful longing.
He felt the gentle breeze and the warmth of the sun as he looked at her, imagining the two of them alone in that clearing on the mountainside. Despite its openness, he somehow felt intimately isolated with her as she slowly turned to face him, smiling and biting her lower lip, looking both shyly virginal and seductively expectant. The sparkle of life in her eyes made his heart swell with a feeling he'd never permitted himself, and the teasing smile on her face…
Well, his heart wasn't the only part of his anatomy building up to a throbbing, swollen state.
He had to have her. The gods be damned, he didn't know if she was putting the image in his head or if he'd conjured it out of his own imagination: Either way, he wanted it to be real.
He wanted all of her—body, soul, heart, and mind. He wanted everything. He wanted to love her in ways he'd only dreamt about, and he wanted to hold her and listen to her stories, mesmerized by her voice and her passion for life—a passion he'd never thought possible until he met her.
Then he blinked, and the vision was destroyed.
But the prisoner—Gods damn her!—was looking at him with a knowing smile that left him eerily unsettled. She seemed to look into his very soul, and the sparkle in her eyes made him think that somehow she had either seen or created his fantastic vision and was only waiting for him to acknowledge it.
“Lights out, storyteller,” he grumbled, his voice rougher than he intended.
“Ah, well,” she sighed, lying down. “Tomorrow is a new day.”
Benash stalked away, the overhead lights snapping off one by one behind him, and with each step and the growing darkness, he felt something vital slowly slipping away.
Chapter 28
THE SEALED letter seemed to glare at Benash as he checked in at the clerk's desk the next morning. Keeping his face carefully blank, he slowly reached out and picked up the letter, breaking the blood red seal and scanning the lines.
“Well, I'm off again,” he said with a sigh, tossing the letter down so the clerk could see it. The man looked it over, made a note in his book, and gave him a quick nod as Benash turned away and went right back home to pack.
That night, as he lay in bed in an apartment that was eerily identical to his own, excepting the other occupants, he fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming of chains winding around him and drawing him ever closer to the capitol.
He woke with a start, panting and sweating, and it was nearly an hour before he was able to find sleep again.
When he did, Vorena was there, beckoning him.
Her colorful garment and shimmering skin shone against a backdrop of pitch black, but as she raised her arms in welcome, offering him a stunning smile, the light rose and revealed a strange space: Instead of white walls, concrete floors, and grey furniture, the room in which Benash found himself was a riot of color and texture, with patterned fabrics all around and shelves absolutely stuffed with books.
He looked around, stunned, and felt as though he'd come home.
Then Vorena stood before him, holding a small child in her arms. The girl was pale like him, with his dark hair and his blue-green eyes, but her smile was Vorena's, as was the life in her expression. She reached for him, and Vorena grinned as the girl threw her arms about Benash's neck, hugging him fiercely.
They sat down together to share a meal, talking and laughing the entire time, and soon the little girl curled up and fell asleep, leaving Benash alone with Vorena, staring into her eyes as she stood just before him.
His heart raced, some part of him thinking, This is the way things ought to be.
As though she'd heard his thought, Vorena smiled at him, and Benash could no longer resist. He had to touch her, had to kiss her, had to have her.
He reached out, eager to feel her skin under his hands.
But his fingers passed right through her.
“No, don't go,” he whispered, trying to reach for her again.
But his hands closed on nothing but air as Vorena slowly faded away.
When he woke a moment later, Benash found a tear slipping down his cheek.
I want this. Seven help me, I know it's wrong, but I want this.
That day, he continued his walk to the capitol, his heart heavy and his mind full of the dream, and wondered why the Elders insisted life wasn't meant to be lived that way.
* * *
CHAIRMAN ELDER Moaba set aside a report and folded his hands on the table.
Now, he began, looking at each of his fellows in turn, as for the Collision. We need to discuss our options.
Across the table, Elder Tanlis extracted a file from a large stack and flipped it open.
According to the predictions made by the Agori, the Elder said, tracing a finger down one of the sheets in the file, the next scheduled Collision for Tanas will be at eighteen minutes past the ninth hour of morning on the seventeenth of Partri.
Can we really trust the Agori, though? Elder Carsot asked, spreading his hands.
The Elders looked around at one another, and Tanlis shrugged. They've been accurate to the minute about every Collision in the past, ever since they started calculating the movements of the Isles. No reason to suspect they'd be wrong about this one.
Elder Gozden grumbled. Damned irritating for them to always be right about everything. Are we sure we can't send a delegation through and bring back some of their technology?
Chairman Moaba held up a hand before an argument could begin. We've long since tabled that discussion. We want nothing to do with the Agori, and that's final. If we start bringing back information and technology, it'll only pique the citizens' interests, and that is the last thing we need. So. He paused, glancing around at the others. The question now is this: Do we warn the citizens of the upcoming Collision, or do we let it go unannounced?
The Elders frowned, minds falling silent while they were deep in thought.
I'm inclined to inform the officers, at the very least, if not the entire citizenry, the chairman suggested. It would build up fear, and cause them to turn to us for protection. We could harness that fear, and use it to justify tighter controls. The people will gladly give up a little more freedom for the sake of more security. It has always worked in the past.
Several heads nodded, but a few still looked thoughtful.
You know, Elder Rethil murmured slowly, there is some merit in the idea of not telling anyone at all.
Do explain, Elder Rethil, the chairman said, steepling his fingers as he looked across the table at the man.
Well, when was the last Collision? For Tanas, that is, Elder Rethil clarified.
Elder Tanlis turned back to his file and moved his finger up a few lines on the sheet before him. It was nearly forty years ago.
There, Rethil said, gesturing triumphantly. You see?
See what precisely, Elder? the chairman asked in clipped tones.
The vast majority of our population weren't even alive forty years ago, the Elder pointed out. Our mortality rate is so high that very few people have lived long enough to remember the last Collision. Even though the citizens are fearful of the idea of a Collision, they haven't experienced the true terror of such an event firsthand. I doubt simply telling them of its coming will be sufficient to inspire the kind of fear we'd need to get them to willingly hand over more freedom. We need them to suffer the fear directly.
But then we run the risk of losing a good numb
er of our people in the damage, Elder Gozden replied. And then we're back to forcing more marriages and hoping for more children to rebuild the population.
Elder Rethil waved his hands dismissively. Call it collateral damage. But it's sure to do the trick. Listen: Don't tell the citizens the precise date and time, and after the Collision, they'll be begging us for help, and for protection in the future.
The Elders nodded, looking thoughtful, and sat in silence for several minutes, inwardly debating the possibilities.
You know, Elder Tanlis said, there is another option.
What is that? Chairman Moaba asked.
What if we do tell them about the Collision, right down to the predicted date and time, but lie about it?
And what good would that serve? Elder Rethil spat.
Hear me out, Elder Tanlis said, holding up his hands in a placating fashion. Let's say we spread the word that a Collision is coming. We tell them the wrong date, or the wrong time, and announce that the Agori have predicted it. Then, add that we do not believe the Agori were correct, and that we believe the Collision is actually coming at a different date or time—being, actually, the correct one—so when the Collision hits, not at the time we claim the Agori predicted, but at the time we instead swore was correct, then not only will they come to us, begging for protection and help, but they'll also be more loyal to us, since we will have been right and the Agori wrong—even though it was all a lie.
Chairman Moaba stroked his chin, thinking. That might work, he muttered. If we tell them, for instance, the Collision is meant to hit at midday—swear the Agori predicted it so, even though they actually predicted it to be three hours earlier—then when it actually hits at– What was it?
Eighteen minutes past the ninth hour of morning, Elder Tanlis supplied, checking his file.
When it actually hits earlier, the chairman went on, they'll be angry at the Agori for being wrong, and eagerly do whatever we tell them in order to get them healing and protection from whatever damage occurs. Yes, I dare say this might work. They'll give up freedoms for the sake of protection so quickly, they won't even have time to think about it.
