by K A Riley
I open my mouth, but he cuts me off with a raised finger. “You’ll have your turn.” One hand clasped behind his back and the microphone in the other, he turns his attention to the crowds around us. “By any definition of Fate, biology, or the intervention of God, Emergents weren’t meant to be. They were created in labs from the synthesis of biogenetic and digital code and were manufactured as weapons of war.” Switching his microphone from one hand to the other, Angel Fire makes two dramatic sweeps with his arms, taking in the now quiet and attentive crowds. “The fact that some of them don’t know they were designed as weapons doesn’t make them any less dangerous…or any less guilty of violating every law of ethics and every rule of war known to humanity.”
He lowers the microphone and takes a small bow as the crowds look on. He waves his hand at Zephora, who shuffles over to his desk and draws a second microphone out of one of the drawers.
“So,” Angel Fire drawls, “who’s it going to be?”
Almost without hesitation and definitely without consulting my Asylum, I raise my hand. “Don’t worry,” I assure my friends with a half-turned head and through the corner of my mouth. “I can handle this.”
On cue from Angel Fire, Zephora swings her arm and tosses the second microphone underhand to me in a spinning arc. I catch it in a smooth scoop, with Angel Fire giving me an approving nod.
Calm as a clam, I lean forward, my lips to the head of the mesh-topped microphone. “There’s a difference between being a violation and committing one.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the ducklings making small motions with their fingers over a small black-mirrored pad each one has fixed to the palm of one hand.
There’s a beat of silence, and I’m not sure anyone heard what I said. But then, from somewhere up front by the trailer’s cab, a gong of some sort chimes out in a vibrating peal. Over on one side of Angel Fire’s desk, the sharp-ended arm of one of the numbered stanchions toggles to the number “1.”
Angel Fire’s face drops into a melty pout. Next to me, Matholook claps me on the back. “Nice going! We’re winning!”
I answer with a shrug and a blush. “Nothing to it.”
A little cheer goes up from the rest of my Asylum behind me, although it’s quickly suppressed by a chorus of hisses from the crowds and a barrage of menacing glares from the bare-chested guards, who don’t look too happy about my side taking an early lead.
For their part, the yellow-clad jurors—finished logging what I’m assuming must have been their vote—return to being rigid, unblinking, and pretty much expressionless. If they weren’t rocking back and forth in their makeshift jury box, I don’t think they’d be moving at all.
Angel Fire shakes his head, clearly unwilling to admit defeat, even of the smallest point. “Being a violation is far worse than committing one. The act follows the being. The corruption of the act reflects the corruption of the being. You are a corrupt being, a plague, a cancer, an origin of a path leading humanity away from itself.”
Her chin on my shoulder, Libra whispers in my ear. “Did this kid swallow a philosophy textbook?”
I’d probably laugh out loud…if we weren’t apparently on trial for our lives.
Libra’s right, though. This Angel Fire kid is smarter than I thought. He must have studied a lot or maybe he’s a savant or something. Either that, or else he’s really good at faking it.
“But what if we’re leading humanity down a better path?” I ask, stepping forward, trying to match his tone, confidence, and posturing.
The squat black speakers are barely enough to overcome the ambient noise sending shuddering waves through the air and vibrating my skin. I’ve never spoken into a microphone before, and I’m horrified at how high and whiny my voice sounds.
Not sure if the crowds—and especially the judges—heard me, I raise the microphone to my lips and repeat my question: “What if us Emergents are leading humanity down a better path?”
Angel Fire points past me toward Matholook, who’s standing sheepishly behind my shoulder. “The Devoted can answer that. The cowardly leader pushes from the back. The despotic leader drags from the front. A true leader—the best and most ideal leader—guides from the side.” The twelve ducklings fiddle with their palm-pads, the gong chimes again for Angel Fire’s side, and the arrow-shaped arm on the other stanchion points to “1.” Reveling in quickly tying up the score, Angel Fire spreads his arms wide. “There has never been a time in history when people with power didn’t exploit that power.”
“Kind of like you’re doing now?”
A rumble of “Oohs” and a chorus of finger-snaps rises up from the jostling crowds on the ground and from the audiences seated on our two companion flatbeds.
Angel Fire smiles. “This is an inquiry whose end result will be justice.”
“On your terms.”
After tucking the microphone under his arm and adjusting the oversized knot in his tie, he offers up a dismissive shrug. “You’ve been given the right to defend yourself.”
“A right given to us by you, which means you can also take it away. Isn’t that the definition of unchecked power?”
The ducklings fidget, the gong chimes, the scoring clock dings, the arm moves to “2,” and another point is added to our side.
Angel Fire scowls at the clock, now showing a score of two to one, like it’s personally offended him before pivoting back to me. “Are you aware of the Singularity?”
“Yes,” I sigh into the microphone, wondering where on earth he could be going with this. “It’s when artificial intelligence catches up to human intelligence. And then surpasses it. Do I look like a self-aware supercomputer to you?”
Laughing, Angel Fire shakes his head and tosses me a condescending smirk before striding forward and pacing in front of me and my Asylum. “Scientists, philosophers, bio-technicians…they were right about the Singularity. They were just wrong about the two component pieces. It’s not artificial intelligence and the human mind that were on a collision course. It was genetic code and binary code. The double-helix and the bits and bytes of ones and zeros. Long thought to be separate, they have turned out to be two dialects of a single language. And you are the Rosetta Stone.”
I know from Kress a bit about the confluence of binary and genetic code. But Angel Fire must see the confusion etched in my face because he pauses and takes a long look around at the crowds, now mostly silent and leaning forward, although I can’t tell if it’s in anticipation or confusion.
Around us, wheels and treads continue to grind, diesel engines continue to cough up exhaust, and mag-generators continue to hum. But what was once an oppressive sensory overload has started to fade into the background thrum of life, and I remember something my mother said about a place she once visited in this country called Niagara Falls. “It’s a thunderous, astonishing sight and sound,” she gushed. “But people who live close to the Falls lose the ability to hear it.”
Is that what’s happening here? Are we getting used to the chaos of the Army of the Unsettled? And is that a good thing, or is it the worst thing imaginable?
“Do you know what that is,” Angel Fire asks through a smug grin. “The Rosetta Stone?”
“I know it’s something that used to be in the British Museum,” I answer.
I know what I’m talking about. Unlike anyone else here, I’ve actually been to the British Museum. Well, I’ve scavenged in the rubble. Before I let myself get taken to the St. Paul’s Processor, I spent a lot of my days exploring the city and seeing how close I could get to the Banters of Hyde Park or to the Royal Fort Knights of Buckingham Palace without getting caught, captured, or killed. Along the way, I foraged in the ruins of some of the city’s museums, although I didn’t spend too long inside any one of them. There were too many dangers, including from random gangs and from the very real possibility an entire building would fall down on top of me.
“The Rosetta Stone,” Angel Fire explains with a snootiness that makes me want to punch
him in the face, “was an ancient decree from around 32 BCE, written in hieroglyphs, Egyptian script, and Ancient Greek. The message in the three languages was rather basic. It simply said that the priests supported King Ptolemy. But out of that elemental proclamation came the key to unlocking countless ancient mysteries.”
“Is this a debate or a history lesson?” Ignacio heckles from behind me.
But then he has to cover his head with his arms and duck as a hail of those tiny white pebbles rains down on us from the annoyed audience.
“In either case,” Angel Fire continues, “you represent the culmination of technology and the end of humanity.”
I risk letting out a little chuckle. “Maybe that’s for the best. You’ve seen what humanity is capable of.”
I expect a point for that, but the crowd stays quiet, and the numbers on our lollipop-shaped clock don’t change.
Amplified over a high-pitched screech of feedback, Angel Fire’s voice rises through the air, pushed along by the momentum of his confidence. “Humanity is capable of great ignorance, uncontrollable fear, and the worst depths of irrational violence. But we’re also capable of growth and change. Emergents leap over that growth and change.”
He glances at the ducklings, whose fingers skitter over their palm-pads. The arm of his clock ticks forward, the second bulb on his side lights up, his score pings up to “2,” and the crowds belt out their most enthusiastic cheer yet.
Frack. Tied. Two to two.
Trying to counter his rather insulting claim about us being some kind of shortcut, evolutionary cheat-code, I decide to turn the tables on him. “Maybe our role as Emergents is to guide Typics in the right direction.”
Damn! I shouldn’t have said “maybe.” It makes me sound unsure.
Angel Fire scoffs at this. “You say ‘guide.’ I say ‘force.’”
The gong peals. His clock dings again as the arm points to “3,” the third bulb glows yellow, and the crowds cheer, pumping their fists in the air or clapping their hands heartily over their heads in the anticipation of their leader’s victory.
Leading three to two, he’s halfway to victory, which means me and my Asylum are halfway to death. “We have the right to live!” I cry.
Frack. That sounded more like a whine than a reasonable argument.
“No more so than any other specimen from a lab,” Angel Fire answers with breezy composure.
“Why do we scare you so much?” I ask.
“You don’t scare me…you scare all of us.”
“Why?”
“Because you represent…no…you are a harbinger of doom. You will either lead us, replace us, enslave us, or destroy us.” The crowds around us growl their agreement. “In any case, your presence means our time on earth is over.”
The gong clangs, the next bulb burns bright, and the arm on his score-counter ticks to “4” while my score stays locked at “2.”
“It doesn’t have to mean that,” I remind him.
“It shouldn’t have to mean that. But history tell us it can never mean anything else.”
I know how desperate I must sound when I point an accusing finger at him. “Your people invaded the Devoted compound. You kidnapped a little girl.”
“We attacked an enemy who had already attacked us, and we left with a weapon of war. And unless you’ve forgotten, you stole her from us and returned her to them so she could be used against us.”
“A little girl is not a weapon of war.”
“Said the little girl who is a weapon of war.”
The crowds erupt in a mocking, “Oooooh!”
“I’m not a little girl,” I object once the taunts and jeers die down. “And I’m definitely not a weapon.”
“You are the worst kind of weapon. Unflinching. Unafraid. Deadly. And it doesn’t matter what side you’re on. You go in the direction you’re pointed.”
The gong sounds. The scoring arm ticks to “5.”
Oh, frack. He’s ahead five to two. This isn’t good.
“We haven’t been pointed in any direction.”
“Even worse,” Angel Fire laughs into his microphone, and the crowd laughs along with him. “And also very untrue. Your Academy is training you to put an end to us.”
How does he even know about the Academy?
“Our Academy is training us to use our abilities,” I say with a pout of righteous indignation.
“Right. To put an end to us.”
“No! To put an end to war!”
“And how, exactly, do you plan to do that? Wars can’t be defeated. Only the people waging them can. Don’t kid yourself, Branwynne of the Emergents Academy. Every soldier thinks their side is the right side…to the degree that they think at all.”
I don’t know how to respond to this other than to press my lips together and scowl at him.
I glance up at the two scoring posts. He’s way ahead, and I’m getting anxious. Behind me, Matholook and my Asylum mutter their encouragement. “You can do this,” they assure me.
“Emergents are an abomination,” Angel Fire declares. “You upset the balance of power.”
“Good,” I snap. “Power needs to be unbalanced. Otherwise, it becomes solidified and crushes all of us under its weight.”
When I say, “us,” I gesture, not just to me and my friends, but to the audiences around us and to the Army of the Unsettled, in general.
That gets me three seconds of silence and then a few bits of scattered applause from the spectators. The gong sounds, and the clock on our side ticks to “3.” From behind me, Libra shakes my arm and whispers, “Nice job!”
Angel Fire lowers his head, and I feel a surge of adrenaline rush through me.
Maybe I can win this thing, after all.
When he looks up again, he seems sort of sad. When he leans into the microphone this time, I can barely hear him.
“Emergents are better than the rest of us,” he concedes. “You’re too strong. Too advanced. Too close to the ultimate goal of defying Death. These aren’t things to be celebrated. These are things to be feared and expunged.” He takes a deep breath like he regrets what he’s about to say, but then he soldiers on. “Maybe someday we’d all get to where you are. But we’re not there yet. You’ll claim to want to take us with you, but you will outpace us and ultimately overpower us. What’s going to happen when—instead of guns and the genocidal weapons of the Patriot Army—the next President Krug has an army of Emergents at his disposal?”
He drops his hand to his side, the microphone dangling from his pinched fingers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the ducklings entering their scores.
Oh, frack.
The long hand of the giant clock on Angel Fire’s side toggles to “6,” and there’s a single second of cemetery silence before the audiences around us burst into a foot-stomping, chest-thumping thunder of explosive cheers.
Looking strangely downcast for someone who just won, Angel Fire turns his back to the raucous crowds and walks over to stand in front of me and my Asylum, covering the top of his microphone as he does.
“Don’t tell,” he says, looking even smaller than before as he takes a wide-legged stance in front of us. “But I was secretly rooting for you.”
“That’s great,” Ignacio says, sidling up next to me and glaring down at the shorter boy in front of us. “So that means you’ll let us go then?”
Angel Fire shakes his head. “Unfortunately, I’m as bound as you are by the rules of the Debate to the Death.”
Turning to his adoring fans, he raises the microphone back to his mouth and announces for everyone to hear, “Thank you all for coming out to the Debate to the Death! The debate part is done. Only death remains!”
17
Verdict
“The twelve Arbiters have done their duty. You lost the debate and lack the power to live. I hereby declare you guilty of all charges.”
Angel Fire raises his arms and pumps his fists. The sleeves of his oversized sports coat drop
down in crumpled wrinkles around his spindly, hairless arms.
The crowds sway and break into a chant of “Hereby guilty!” as the trio of flatbeds lurches and rumbles along.
Libra nudges her way between Ignacio and Arlo. “What’s that mean?” she asks me, her hand on my shoulder.
It means we’re about to die.
When I don’t respond to her right away, she steps forward, her hands cupped around the sides of her mouth as she shouts out across the Trial Barge at Angel Fire, “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Angel Fire proclaims, taking a few steps toward us, his mouth to his microphone, “that you five Emergents are hereby sentenced to death for being Emergents.” The crowds applaud at this, to Angel Fire’s clear delight. He waves them down and holds up a “But wait—there’s more!” finger. “The Emergents are sentenced to death for being Emergents,” he repeats and then adds, “the Devoted named Matholook is hereby sentenced to death for war crimes committed in the name of his Cult.”
“Death?” Ignacio barks out from behind me. “Isn’t that a little extreme?”
Angel Fire shakes his head. “Not as extreme as letting any of you live.”
He’s rewarded with a cacophony of hoots and howls from his adoring fans.
“This guy really doesn’t like us, does he?” Sara says from the back of our assembled Asylum. She inspects her fingernails before crossing her arms across her chest. “I can see wanting to sentence Ignacio to death…but the rest of us?”
Ignacio says, “Hey!” and I put a hand on his chest and reassure him that Sara’s just taking the piss.
Ignacio clamps a hand to his crotch. “I’ve got a piss she can take right here.”
“Nice,” I say with a shake of my head, increasingly baffled by Sara’s casual taunting. I dip my head and tilt my chin down, keeping my voice low so Angel Fire won’t hear me. “Forget the joking around for two seconds,” I mumble to my Asylum. “We’re going to have to fight.”
“We don’t have weapons,” Libra moans in a defeated whisper.
