To The Stars

“Because of the recordings being made? I know about that now, one of your friends told me. But I want her to hear, I want to tell her these things myself. She worked so hard to keep us apart.”

And in the end she is going to succeed, Jan thought, blackly. She was won. The sight of Alzbeta so near yet so untouchable was too much at the moment.

“Go now, please,” he told her. “But come back later, do you promise?”

“Of course.”

He fell onto the bed, his back to the window, not wishing to see her leave. Then it was all over. Ryzo was the only one who might have done something to help him. But Ryzo was dead, angered by her as she must have planned. Killed by her as she had carefully planned as well. No one else could organize any help in the short time left. He had friends, many of them, but they were helpless. And enemies as well, everyone who hated change and blamed him for everything. Probably the majority of people on this world. Well he had done what he could for them. Not very much. Though if the ships came now they would have the corn waiting. Not that the people here would avail themselves of the advantage. They would bow like the peasants they were and go back to the fields and servitude, and slave their lives away for no reward, no future. Nothing. He had had the brief time with Alzbeta; that was worth a lot to him. Better to have had something than nothing. And she would have their son, hopefully a son. Or better, a daughter. A son of his might have too many of his father’s characteristics. A daughter would be better. The meek did not inherit the earth here, but perhaps they lived a bit longer with a little more happiness. All of which would be academic if the ships never came. They might be able to get most of the people through to the north just one more time with the decaying equipment. Probably not even that, if he were not there to put things back together.

And he was not going to be there, because in a few short hours more he would be dead. He hung heavily from the bars of the tiny window and looked out at the perpetual gray of the sky. The garrote. No one here had ever heard of it. Revived by the rulers of Earth for the worst offenders. He had been forced to witness an execution of this kind once. The prisoner seated on the specially built chair with the high back. The hole behind his neck. The loop of thick cord passed around his neck with the ends through the hole. The handle attached to the cord that turned and tightened and shortened it until the prisoner was throttled, painfully, and dead. There had to be a sadist to tighten the cord. No shortage of them. Surely Scheer would volunteer for the job.

“Someone to see you,” the guard called in.

No visitors. I want to see no one else other than Alzbeta. Respect a man’s last wishes. And get me some food and beer. Plenty of beer.”

He drank, but he had no appetite for the food. Alzbeta came once again and they talked quietly, closely, as close as they could get. She was there when the Proctors came for him and they ordered her away.

“No surprise to see you, Scheer,” Jan said. “Are they going to be nice and let you turn the handle on the machine?”

Jan could tell by the man’s sudden pallor and silence that his guess had been right. “But maybe I’ll kill you first,” he said and raised his fist.

Scheer lurched back, scrambling for his gun, a coward. Jan did not smile at the spectacle. He was tired of them, tired of them all, tired of this stupid peasant world, almost ready to welcome oblivion.

Nineteen

It was the same platform that had been used for the trial; the same public address system still set up. Nothing was wasted; everything was carefully planned. But the chairs and tables placed there for the trial had been removed and a single item put in their place. The high-backed chair of the garrote. Carefully made, Jan noticed in a cold and distant way, not done in a day. All well prepared. He bad stopped, unconsciously, at the sight of it, his guard of Proctors stopping too.

This was a moment suspended in time, as though no one was sure just what to do next. The five judges, mute witnesses to their decision, stood on the platform. The crowd watched. Men, women, children, every inhabitant of the planet well enough to walk must have stood there, jammed in the Central Way. Silent as death itself, waiting for death. The perpetually overcast sky pressed down like a mourning blanket against the silence.

Broken suddenly by Chun Taekeng, never patient, always angry, immune to the emotions that gripped the others.

“Bring him over, don’t just stand there. Let us get on with this.”