Incomplete No. 7 / The Executioner Goes Home

by Sean Williams

  There were tiny buns on the table, filled with sweet, smoked meats. There was fruit, and hard-boiled eggs dyed black. Bridal colours.

  ‘When can we eat?’ the Bride asked.

  ‘Soon.’ Nonna pulled out a checklist to linger over the tasks yet to do.

  Lucia hesitated. ‘It was a snap decision. To marry him, I mean.’

  ‘Doesn’t make it the wrong decision.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t want to marry me anymore? I mean, I can’t imagine why he would. It’s been seven years.’

  ‘So?’ Nonna’s frown was exaggerated by the punch.

  ‘What if he’s changed his mind? What if I’ve lost my looks?’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Nonna hooted.

  ‘What if he has?’ the Bride persisted.

  Nonna giggled. ‘Lost his looks? Or changed his mind?’

  ‘You’re not helping.’

  Nonna gathered herself. ‘The Executioner will be King. He will live in a grander palace than even this. He’ll conduct business with other worlds and he’ll hold parties and invite guests from all over the Cluster. People will remember Terra. A new King will change everything. Industry. Tourism. Wealth. Power. Especially power. Do you know how long it’s been since an Executioner…’

  ‘Lived?’

  ‘To the end of a term?’

  Lucia shrugged. It was a long time. ‘So, I’ve no option but to marry him?’

  ‘No Bride’s ever asked for an option.’

  No Bride’s ever needed one. ‘I’m asking.’

  Nonna gestured, as if she hoped the answer might come from her hands. ‘You’d have to re-write the entire history of the Executioners to have options. You’d have to,’ she paused, gathering her thoughts, ‘to forsake Terra and everyone on it. You’d have to throw away tradition—’

  ‘Tradition!’ the Bride spat.

  ‘You’d have to hide. Because the future of Terra rests on you. And him. The new King and Queen.’

  ‘And the old Queen?’

  Nonna whispered. ‘Long past time for the old Queen to retire, if you ask me.’

  The Bride’s stomach knotted. The cloth hung empty over her groin. ‘Has anybody asked her?’

  Nonna’s expression was pinched. ‘Central has decreed.’

  ‘Well. I hope that’s enough.’

  She could barely picture Adao now. The gawky teenager with the bony elbows. She couldn’t believe he’d lived, that he’d made it home.

  Almost home, she corrected herself.

  ‘What if we don’t get on?’ she asked.

  ‘You’re only marrying him,’ Nonna said bitterly. ‘You don’t have to like him.’

  The second thing the Executioner did in his private bay on the ship was lie down.

  The first was to strip off his Executioner’s uniform and drop it to the floor, where it lay like a puddle. He wriggled his toes and rested his hands across his pistols, which he balanced on top of his bare belly.

  Three meals had been delivered and sat on the bench by the door, their aromas bleeding into one generic scent of warm food. It made him queasy. It made him wonder how long this trip might actually take.

  The first time he’d made this journey—well, not this journey, of course, but the reverse of it—he’d marvelled at the ship. The elaborate decoration, the faux-parquetry floors, the cascade of hard, magenta curtains held back with gold cords, the gold-embossed wallpaper and delicate picture rails. The pillars that looked like grey marble but were soft to the touch. He’d gone around the suite rapping his knuckles on each column and cornice, only to find they echoed. They were hollow.

  After the stark, thick lodgings of Terra, it came as a surprise.

  Now, the room made him nervous. Too many places to hide. He checked his wrist scanner on the bed beside him. It registered nothing organic in the room, not even the furniture, not even the curtains. Nothing apart from him. And the food.

  He was trying to picture his future, teasing at the idea in the same way he might wonder about such theoretical concepts as collective consciousness, universal peace, or karma. He envisioned disembarking on Terra. Walking down the gangplank to his waiting Bride and—he stifled a convulsive burst of laugher—ascending the throne to be King of Terra. In three hundred years, no Executioner had ever done that. The crown had only moved from one generation to the next, but never out of the family that had come to possess it.

  He buzzed the comms unit by his bed. ‘Change course.’

  ‘Roger that.’ Holder’s voice.

  No perceptible change in the movement of the ship, but the screen at his feet revealed a bright blue line that elbowed into a new direction.

  The Executioner returned his gaze to the ceiling. He was used to his mattress on the floor, but here the bed was an ornate bench protruding from a patterned wall. No windows, not even opaque ones to draw his attention. Nothing to let in the light because, of course, there wasn’t any. The space between Central and Terra was a long, large, dark corridor.

  Not empty, though. Brimming with unpredictable, alienating, potentially dangerous life.

  But that was out there. All threats to his wellbeing would surely come from inside the ship now. Or from missiles, of course. There were always missiles. He tried not to think about the missiles.

  He watched the blue line between his toes for a while. Then he thumbed the comms device.

  ‘How did you choose this trajectory, Holder?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ she answered. ‘I pick a number on the controls, the ship programs a new course based on random computations—’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The Executioner didn’t like randomness. What if the ship had, randomly, set them on the most direct path it could devise?

  He went back to worrying about the dangers of the universe they were arcing across. Until a discreet bleating distracted him.

  He swung the pistols up before realising what he could hear was the door chiming. Naked, he crossed the room. Captain Welles’s face appeared on the comms screen by the door. He seemed nervous. The Executioner was used to that expression.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he asked, keeping his own camera off.

  Welles said, ‘We’ve found on board a person of interest. Facial recognition confirms it is someone on the Executioner’s List.’

  ‘How in the name of all that’s holy did that happen?’

  Welles shifted. ‘We’re missing a crew member from the manifest. We’ve asked Central to set up a search.’

  He hoped they’d told Central to search for the body. If there really was a person from the Executioner’s List on this ship, they hadn’t made that list through any minor indiscretions.

  The captain hesitated. ‘Executioner, as per the directives of Central, all personages from the Executioner’s List—’

  ‘Must be dealt with as soon as practicable,’ the Executioner supplied. ‘I’m familiar with it.’

  ‘Of course.’ Welles looked relieved. ‘And as there are some hours left on your tenure—’

  ‘No need to remind me.’

  Still, he made no move to open the door. He gripped his pistols.

  On the screen, Welles continued, ‘Central could, of course, revoke your retirement rights if it’s deemed that this was one of those practicable times to perform the Executioner’s duty.’

  He sounded wheedling.

  The stomach of the Executioner lurched. He realised for one bleak moment that he would never make it back, never retire, never be King of Terra. Of course he wouldn’t, only a fool could think otherwise. He would die an Executioner, like almost all of his predecessors. He would die within the next few hours.

  ‘Bring them closer to the camera,’ he ordered.

  A face was roughly pulled in front of the screen. The Executioner’s List was too long to memorise, but this man looked the type. He’d met thousands of people just like this man in his seven-year tenure. Evil people doing evil, letting that evil eat away at their faces and deaden their eyes until they bec
ame all of one kind.

  The Executioner held his wrist-scanner to the monitor until it beeped. He pulled it up to read its report. The scan rolled through the Executioner’s database and found the man’s name, Daniel Earls, and listed his offences. Murder, he read. Then another murder. Three more murders. Torture. He stopped scrolling after that. It was enough.

  ‘Speak your name,’ the Executioner said.

  Earls sneered and pulled faces and gave an offensive, gargling chuckle. ‘Go to hell, Executioner!’

  ‘Close enough,’ the Executioner reasoned. ‘And why are you on this ship?’

  ‘Why are you? You’ll never make it back to Terra.’

  ‘How do you know where I’m from?’

  ‘Can’t keep a whole planet from showing off their most successful son, Executioner,’ Earls chortled. ‘Don’t you read the papers?’

  The Executioner gritted his teeth. What was the point of cloistering the Bride if the whole cluster knew which planet to find her on, regardless?

  ‘Give me three minutes,’ the Executioner said. ‘Then present the man at the cabin door.’

  ‘Sir,’ Welles said.

  Earls was dragged roughly from the screen.

  The Executioner retrieved his fallen uniform and donned it, noting for the first time the stale smell of dust and fear in its weave. He examined the stains across its sleeves, the frayed cuffs and the shiny patches on knee and elbow. He pulled it straight and holstered one of his pistols. He wouldn’t need both for the task at hand.

  He readied himself, taking aim at the middle of the closed door. The sweat on his hand made the pistol’s handle slippery, so he switched it temporarily to his other hand, wiped his palm on his trousers, and prepared himself again.

  ‘On my word,’ he told the comms screen. ‘Open the door.’

  ‘Roger that,’ said Welles.

  ‘As soon as the door is fully open, hit the Close command.’

  Welles hesitated.

  ‘As soon as the door is fully open,’ the Executioner articulated, very clearly, ‘and no later. You must hit the Close command immediately. Or, I cannot be responsible.’

  The image of Welles on the intercom paled. The idea of an anxious, armed Executioner was clearly sinking in.

  ‘Sir,’ said Welles.

  The Executioner took a breath, steadied his hand, took another breath, and calmed himself.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked the comms screen.

  ‘Sir,’ Welles confirmed.

  ‘Open!’

  The door slid open. The murderer, Daniel Earls, stood framed between the heavy arms of the sentries, leering into the suite.

  ‘Get—’ Earls began.

  He never finished.

  The Executioner fired once into the man’s head and three times into his chest before he even had time to fall, before he even had time to stop sneering.

  Earls reeled back, neck slack, arms jerking upward in the grips of the sentries. The sentries themselves half-turned, half-crouched, eyes darting from the falling, blood-spraying body between them. No one looked the Executioner in the eye.

  ‘Close!’ the Executioner commanded.

  Welles jumped at the reminder, his hand still on the controls. The door slid shut. The executed man still hadn’t made it to his knees. His body steamed.

  The stink of burned flesh was in the room, but the door was reassuringly shut tight.

  The Executioner was alone.

  He replaced his weapon with a shaking hand and undid the top button of his coat. Sweat crawled out of his hairline towards his jaw.

  From habit, he checked his uniform for signs of blood. His own blood. High on adrenalin, he’d been told, the Executioner sometimes did not feel the assassin’s attack.

  The uniform was intact.

  Welles’s voice came over the comms screen and the electronics did nothing to disguise his surprise. ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s all there is.’

  ‘No… ceremony? No words?’

  ‘The trial’s already taken place. This man was found guilty in absentia. I merely had to carry out the sentence. Captain?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Prepare his body for return to Central.’

  The captain gave a garbled acquiescence and the screen went blank.

  Shaking, the Executioner returned to his bunk and lay, fully dressed, huffing like an athlete at the end of competition. He got up to vomit once into the sink of his bathroom, bilious strings of yellow from an empty stomach. Then he buzzed the command room.

  ‘Should I change course?’ Holder’s voice was strained.

  ‘No. I have a favour I’d ask of you.’

  ‘Bride?’

  Lucia turned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m Ettore. You remember?’ He had the gentlest smile, she noted, and a light in his eyes.

  ‘Vaguely,’ she admitted.

  She laughed. In embarrassment, mainly, but also because of the punch rolling around in her system.

  ‘Is something amusing?’ Ettore smiled.

  ‘Yes,’ Lucia smiled. ‘No. It’s a happy day.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  There was no requirement for Brides to be faithful to their absent husbands, and she had never been faithful. Lovers would visit fleetingly, more so in the beginning when the novelty was fresh. Later, almost out of duty. She didn’t mind. Commitment to the random physical acts freed her mind from doubt and worry and fear.

  She’d taken up a bunch of pursuits to quell the boredom. Fencing was one. Dance, for a while. Archery. Ettore had probably been one of those pursuits, along with countless others. She found the title of Bride liberated her in unpredictable ways. Gave her leverage to insist and demand, to ask for what she wanted.

  ‘Enjoying the party, Ettore?’

  ‘Has it started?’ he smiled.

  Lucia realised she was the only one drinking. Even Nonna had stopped. She set her cup on the table.

  ‘May I accompany you for a walk, Bride?’ Ettore held out an elbow.

  She said ‘Yes’ before she realised she was going to. She said yes the way she always said yes. Compulsively, unpredictably, unprepared for consequence. She hoped the outcome of this yes wouldn’t be another seven years.

  Nonna said, ‘You should stay. In case there’s news.’

  She meant bad news.

  ‘Bring your comms unit,’ the Bride said, like it was a command.

  Nonna frowned, but she followed, kicking at the long hem of her heavy robes.

  Ettore led her through catacombs until she was lost. Nonna followed behind, tut-tutting at her checklist.

  ‘Do you know, I’ve been in this so-called palace for seven years, and yet I’ve never seen this part of it,’ said the Bride.

  ‘These are the Queen’s chambers,’ Ettore said, with formality. ‘The current Queen.’

  ‘Long may she reign,’ the Bride intoned, by habit.

  ‘You must be anxious for the return of your Groom?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It will be a special evening.’ Ettore smiled that smile.

  ‘If he lives.’

  She stumbled, and Ettore reached for her.

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a new kind of smile. ‘If he lives.’

  She barely remembered Adao—the real Adao—any more than she did Ettore or the wealth of lovers she’d had. She couldn’t remember what Adao liked to eat or what his favourite colour was. Only that wine tasted good on his lips.

  ‘Wait, I know where we are now,’ Lucia said.

  She stopped. Nonna walked into her with a grunt.

  ‘The graveyard of the Executioners,’ Ettore said. ‘What better place?’

  Lucia giggled. ‘Better place for what? A wedding? A party?’

  She turned to Ettore with the laugh still in her throat, but Ettore was no longer smiling. The hand that gripped her arm hurt hard.

  When she tried to wrench herself free, she felt the stiff, painted seams of her wedding cloth press into her skin.
>
  Nonna was faster to react. She pulled a blade from the folds of her cloak and rushed Ettore. The blade snagged in his loose shirt, but she still might have made it if someone hadn’t leapt from the newly-dug Executioner’s grave. He rushed Nonna with a sword that cut deep.

  Lucia could hear the slice and grate of metal on bone. Nonna looked surprised. And, almost at once, she dropped to her knees.

  Ettore brushed Nonna’s hand aside and her little blade clattered to the floor. He leered up at the man who’d killed her.

  ‘Salvatore,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘Ettore,’ Salvatore rumbled. Then he wiped his bleeding sword on Nonna’s shoulder and pushed her, face first, to the ground. He rolled her over with a foot under her chest until her blank gaze was fixed on the white, pillowy ceiling.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Lucia forced imperial disdain into her voice. But even she could hear the shake, the rupture of her throat.

  ‘Oh, please, Lucia. We are the Queen’s men. What do you think we’re doing?’

  ‘Condemning yourselves to death?’ she suggested.

  She blinked away tears.

  Salvatore laughed first, a kind of barely harnessed roar. Ettore followed suit, his eyes glittering. When he tipped back his head, she was ready. She shoved her elbow up into his windpipe.

  Ettore’s head snapped forward, his laugh bitten off by the sudden clench of his jaw. She stepped into him and raised her knee hard enough to his groin that she lifted him off the ground. Then she twisted, fast, ducking and dragging Ettore over her as Salvatore reached out with his sword.

  No one had expected the Bride to be so fast. She wasn’t wearing the long, heavy robes everyone else had been made to wear. She wore only the lightest painted cloth, black like the shadows in that dim white room.

  Salvatore was too slow and she was too fast. She dragged Ettore between them. Salvatore’s sword was so far through his companion she had to reel back to avoid its tip at her chest. She stepped back and let Ettore fall.

  Dragged forward by his sword, Salvatore was momentarily disabled. Lucia swung her right leg over Ettore’s stricken form, aiming her foot for Salvatore’s wide girth. She got him with the ball of her foot and winded him. Then she leapt. She propelled herself forward with both feet in the air until she had no choice but to land on her rump on the bodies on the floor. But first she got Salvatore in the gut, hard.