Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet (4 page)

  
He eyed them warily as he walked through and came into the empty, windowless
room.

  
A single source of dim pale light shone from the middle of the ceiling over two
chairs set opposite one another.  He stopped as soon as he entered.  The door
shut automatically behind him, causing his eyes to shoot over his shoulder.  

  
In one of the chairs in front of him, there sat one of the only people in Sodom
he knew, a man with whom he had been acquainted since the very first day.  The
man sat with both arms on the rests of his seat.  Two cobalt eyes flashed
perspicaciously behind the clear, frameless lenses of his pince-nez.  After a
quiet intermission, the man spoke in a low baritone.

  
“I cannot tell you what a delight it is to see
you
again… Saul
Vartanian.”  Dr. Augustus Pope bore the semblance of a man on the brink of old
age, which, these days, meant he could have been anywhere between 50 and 150. The
ice-blue eyes behind the pince-nez were pupilless so that it was never clear
where the neuralist was looking, much less what he was thinking.  “Please sit.”
Pope waved a welcoming hand over the opposite chair. 

  
The vacuous eyes pursued him as he came forward and lowered into his seat.  He
silently determined not to speak unless Pope spoke first, and to say as little
as possible whenever he did. 

  
A small turtle-shell table was set between them; on top of it were set a slim
crystal tablet, two glasses and a silver, cubic article which he could not
identify as anything in particular.  He glanced over each item, before looking
back up at the neuralist, who appeared to be anatomising everything from the
dilation of his pupils to the intervals between his breaths.  “You are
thinking,” said Pope, “about how long it has been since we last met, correct?”
His voice was low and calculated.  “I have no doubt you remember precisely how
long...”

  
“Eleven months and...”

  
“...Thirteen days,” Pope nodded slowly.  The formless smile crept further up
his lips.  “You have been using the Gregorian calendar.  A most peculiar habit.
You had started counting the days that way the first time we cleaned you.”

  
“How long ago was that?”

  
The smile retreated from Pope’s face and his air became instantly more
daunting.  “Never ask questions which are either unanswerable or irrelevant,
Saul.  It is the definitive stepping stone to defection.”  He stopped and
adjusted the pince-nez over his cold eyes.

  
A silence followed which he dared not break. One thing was certain about
neuralists; they knew more about you than you did about them.  Being face to face
with Doctor Pope again was only slightly less unnerving than the prospect of a
summary execution.     

  
“You require my seal of approval to return to active duty.”

  
“Yes,” he replied, after a long delay of contemplation.

  
“Very well… Then, we may begin.”  Pope leaned forward, took the slim tablet off
the table and leaned back again, crossing one leg over the other.  He laid the
tablet on his raised lap, took out a long pen-shaped implement from the breast pocket
of his waistcoat and started tapping at the screen. 

  
“Apollo; record,” he pronounced in a raised voice.

  
The small box on the table started to glow with a pale light.

  
“Day: seventy-five, eighty-seven, thirty-one, eight-hundred and forty-seven
hours,” Pope began to recite. “Subject: Martial Saul Vartanian.  Caste -- First
Tier Ares.  Three-hundred and forty-seven days since previous session.  Cause
of visit:  General evaluation.” Pope leaned back into his seat and the hollow
eyes looked up again.  “I shall now proceed to ask you a number of questions,
which you shall answer truthfully.  I need not tell you that if you lie, I
shall know…”

  
He assented to the neuralist’s words with a silent stare.  

  
“I suppose we can start with a more generic question,” said Pope:  “What have
you been up to for the last three-hundred and forty-seven days?”   

  
“Not much,” he replied, after another delay.

  
Pope bowed his head somewhat disappointedly and tapped away at the tablet
screen. “You withdrew most of your savings from your martial account about four
days after we had last met.”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Five million Dimitars…  Quite a fortune.  Was there a reason?”

  
“Bank transactions are traceable,” he said.

  
“Then, you were hiding from us,” said the neuralist

  
He paused to consider his response, but gave none.

  
“Is that why you have taken such pains to change your appearance?” The
neuralist’s eyes studiously hovered over him, and another long silence
followed. 

  
At this point, he took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his coat
pockets.  He leaned forward, sparked the lighter, puffed and the smoke rose
from his lips. 

  
“You are not making this easy, Saul,” said Pope.  “Are you
trying
to
give the impression that you are on the brink of defection?”

  
“I am
here, am I not?”  He flicked the lighter away with a
clink
and
held the cigarette in his lips.  “Whist we are on the subject; what is the
definition of defection these days?” 

  
“The definition is quite standard.”

  
“Your definitions are constantly changing,” he said, blowing a mist of smoke.

  
“Defection is an advanced state of psychological rebellion against martial
order,” Pope elucidated sternly.  “It occurs in varying degrees, naturally; however,
defectors tend to deteriorate over time and they very seldom recover.” 

  
When he finished, Saul surveyed him through upturned eyes.  He took the
cigarette from his lips and blew another cloud of smoke.  “We all have problems
with society,” he rumbled.  “You must be more specific.”

  
A clear smile across the ashen visage sent a chill through him.  Pope reclined
further back into his seat and tapped at his flashing screen again. 

  
“Answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to the following questions,” he instructed.  “The truth,
as always.”

  
He held an affirming silence and took another draw of his cigarette to hide his
unease.

  
“In the last three-hundred and forty-seven days,” Pope began; “have you
procured an assignment?”

  
He removed the cigarette from his lips and exhaled. 

  
“No.”

  
“Have you had regular intercourse?”

  
“Define regular.”

  
“Once every ten days.”

  
“Yes,” he lied.

  
“Different partners?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“Good…” Pope hummed and tapped away at his screen.  “Have you ever cohabited
with anyone for more than thirty to forty days, intermittently or otherwise?”

  
“No.”

  
“Have you indulged any sort of affection for…”

  
“No,” he answered promptly.

  
“Have you dabbled in any form of transcendentalism, spiritualism…”

  
“No.”

  
The light from the tablet screen flashed reflecting off of the round, opaque lenses
with each question. 

  
“Have you ever considered or attempted escape from martial order?”

  
“…No.”

  
He had paused too long with his answer.

  
The vacuous eyes shot up piercingly over the lenses.  Pope cocked his head back
and slowly removed the pince-nez over his eyes.  “I feel I should remind you,
Saul, that the confidentiality between a neuralist and his patient is
inviolable as a matter of UMC law.  Even in a hearing before a martial court,
nothing said here can be used as evidence against you.  We
are
clear on
that, are we not?”

  
 He did not believe any of it for a minute.

  
“Yes.”

  
“Good.”

  
Pope tucked the glasses away and leaned back in his seat.

 
 “Then, I shall repeat the same question … Have you…”

  
“Yes,” he answered promptly.

  
The same insidious smile crept subtly up the neuralist’s lips once again.  “It’s
perfectly natural for the mind to desire what it cannot have,” he said, with a
hollow tenderness in his voice.  “But, then, there are several undesirable
things that are perfectly natural.  Do you understand, Saul?”

  
Pope uncrossed his legs and slipped the pen into the breast pocket of his
waistcoat. “I think we can skip right to the question upon which hang all the
rest..,” he said, placing the tablet gently on the table-top.  He leaned back
into his seat and laced his thin, grey fingers over his abdomen.  “The neural
program…”

  
The cigarette hung loose in his lips as he breathed in another lungful of smoke
and held his silence.

  
“Saul, do you know what the neural program is for?”

  
He had very definite ideas about what the neural program was for, none of which
he would dare utter in present company.  He chose his words carefully.

  
“The neurals stop us from… feeling things,” he said.

  
Pope’s lip vaguely curled.

  
“Your phraseology, though clumsy, is accurate enough,” he replied.  “To be more
precise; neurals correct all the useless neurological appendages of your long
and blundering past.  We are all born sick.  That is nature’s way.  No organism
is perfect.

  
He puffed away at his cigarette with a glower and did not answer.

 
“Would it not be so immensely conceited, Saul,” Pope continued after a brief
silence, “to believe that every thought, sensation, emotion; every pathological
inclination that enters the skull is worth preserving?  Some inclinations of
the mind must be tempered.  Others… must be eradicated.” 

  
Pope stopped when he perceived the contempt growing in him, then bowed his
head.  “You must know, Saul, that the Commission does nothing for its own
sake.  We are not tyrants and we are certainly not interested in deceiving
you.  You are valuable to us.  Our world – our order – depends on you.  Can you
understand that?”

  
He took the last draw of his cigarette and flicked the butt away. 

  
“I understand,” he nodded.

  
Pope nodded and the formless smile resurfaced. “Splendid,” he declared rapidly.
 “Then, there is nothing more to say.”  He drew the pince-nez once again and
placed them over his eyes.   “You will immediately resume with the program and
follow all the recommended directives.”

 
 The neuralist reached under his suit jacket and took out a small black
canister with a white label on the front and held the canister up in the air.  “Tailored
to your individual neurology,” he assured with a cold, cobalt gleam in his
eye.  He opened the canister and rolled one small, silver tablet onto the
turtle shell table-top.  “One to three tablets every day.  Five days’
intermission every thirty-day cycle.”  He recited the prescription like a
mantra.  “You would do well to plan your prescription around your time in the
war zones.  There should be enough there to last you three cycles.  I expect to
see you in at least one-hundred days to restock, so that we may track your
progress.  Agreed?”

  
The question went unanswered. 

  
He leaned forward, took the canister and tucked it under his coat.  Meanwhile,
Pope also bent over and reached under the table, and when he straightened up,
he was holding a glass bottle containing a clear liquid.   He took the top off
the bottle; poured two measures of the viscous fluid in either glass, and the
sweet fume of distilled ambrosia filled the air.

   “To
your health.”  

  
Pope raised his glass and waited for him to take his own, which he did, then
popped the tablet into his mouth and gulped down the ambrosia. 

  
When the last bulge in his neck receded, Pope knocked back his own drink and
exhaled triumphantly.  “Congratulations,” he pronounced.  “You have passed
evaluation.”   The neuralist rose from his seat and took his coat.  “Your
record will be updated by tomorrow,” he reassured.  “All that is left is to
wish you the best of luck on your assignment.” 

  
Pope took the computer tablet and the small cubic device off the table, tucked
both underneath his coat, arranged himself and pressed back on the pince-nez,
sparing one last vague smile as he walked past Saul’s chair.

 
 “Welcome back, Martial Vartanian.”

  
He heard the door open and close behind him.  When the footsteps faded away
down the empty corridor, he placed his hands on the side of his chair and rose to
his feet, stood and waited. 

  
About a minute later he raised his head, poked around the back of his jaw with
his tongue, cocked his head forward and cupped his hand over his face.  The
tablet rolled out of his lips and into his hand and he tucked it discretely
into his pocket.