The Fallow Page 9

  “And Herald, can your family vouch for your honor?”

  Blasphemy had a feeling they were asking about family for monetary purposes. Or in effort to acquire the guilty by association, for those who could not afford to pay the fines or grease the right palms with bribes.

  “My name is Herald.”

  Law and Herald’s refusal to name anyone, not even themselves, made it clear that they would never grovel for aide. Being as estranged and diametrically opposed as they were to their family’s values, they would unlikely accept their help even if it was offered. They’d rather face the alternative, with courage and integrity.

  “I’ve heard enough,” the Holy Authority roared. He banged the gavel three more times. “All in favor of ‘High Treason’ for Law and Herald, please say, ‘Aye.’”

  A chorus of both dissent and agreement percolated through the room, although everyone in the Verdict Panel raised their hands and said, “Aye.”

  “Verdict? Guilty. Sentence? Bring them to the End of the Line. Tomorrow, it will be death by hanging.” The bang of the gavel was head-splitting. And the cry that burst from Virtue was truly heart-breaking. “Get them out of my sight!”

  “This is preposterous!” Law refused to yield. His flailing body had to be carried out by four Authority Figures. “Is this what you call justice? You’re making a grave mistake. This is not the last you will hear from me. I’ll—”

  The doors across the room slammed with Law, Herald, and their escorts behind it. But the room was far from settled in their absence. The fame, notoriety, and controversy surrounding The Verity Chronicles was palpably more poignant than ever.

  “There are so many things that could happen between now and then.” Blasphemy stroked Virtue’s back, who was hunched over and sobbing into her hands, still soiled with Herald’s blood. “Don’t lose hope.”

  Virtue’s breathing soon leveled out and when the gavel cracked again, she was sitting at attention.

  “Next. . .”

  Blasphemy pulled her sleeve down over her hand and tilted Virtue’s face in her direction. She dried Virtue’s eyelashes and wiped away the blood and dirt with the tears she supplied.

  “There. All set.” Blasphemy forced a smile when their eyes met. Virtue’s gaze made her look so young . . . so mournful and innocent. If there was anyone who could evoke pity and sway the Verdict Panel in a favorable direction, it was Virtue.

  “The Town of Portsmith, the capital, and the Redeemer versus. . .” Their hands came together again and clenched, turning their knuckles white. “Hearsay.”

  They collectively sighed.

  Hearsay hobbled across a platform behind them. She made her way down the stairs, slowly, every step carefully measured, as if she were a hundred years old and not in her late sixties. Upon leveling off in front of the Holy Authority, she cowered before him, curtailing the confident extra inches in height she possessed.

  “Are you aware that you are facing a High Treason charge?”

  Hearsay shuddered out a nod.

  “Aloud, please, for the record.”

  “Yes,” she whimpered, already trembling like a cornered animal and blubbering as if they’d torture her if she said the wrong thing. And the worst-case scenario for her would be Fallowization. But she already had children and was past the age she could bear any new offspring. Forced sterility wouldn’t exactly affect her the same way it would someone like Virtue. So did that mean Hearsay feared a few mouth piercings? Losing her extravagant lifestyle and the husband she hated?

  “Can you please provide your full name? Remember, we can’t help you unless you choose to help yourself.”

  Hearsay took her sweet time. The gallery was getting restless by the time she answered. “My name is Marla Quell. Wife of Herman Quell.”

  Groans and gasps erupted. A rude clap or two. And a few outcries of “Coward.” One particularly disruptive member of the audience, who appeared intoxicated, threw a bottle in Hearsay’s direction.

  The glass shattered. He missed entirely, but the behavior still warranted his removal by force.

  “Order!”

  The gallery was growing less inclined to obey the gavel’s request for silence.

  “He’s an upstanding member of our community,” The Holy Authority said, his voice still raised. He lifted his reading glasses again and skimmed over what must have been her file. He jotted something down and then removed his glasses to peer at her. “Did he have knowledge of your whereabouts? And is he aware of the charges that have been brought against you?”

  “No. He believes I’ve spent the last week and a half at my sister’s house in Fort Braintree.”

  His posture straightened, and he leaned forward, eyes unblinking as he considered her and what she had said.

  The Moral Advocate then clicked his heels together and cleared his throat. “Pardon the interruption, oh Holy One, but this case could most likely be handled by the Treasurer of Portsmith. Do you agree?”

  Blasphemy felt the urge to throw something too . . . right at his fat, chauvinistic head. He was obviously chummy with the distinguished Herman Quell.

  The Holy Authority lifted one haughty eyebrow at Hearsay. He frowned indecisively and then looked to the Verdict Panel. “All in favor?”

  Their verdict wasn’t unanimous, but the majority ruled.

  The gavel hit the sound block. “Mrs. Quell, your behavior has been reprehensible. For that, you’ve procured three years of probation. Furthermore, we will contact Mr. Quell immediately and this matter will be concluded in the Treasurer’s Office.” He looked up to address the two closest Authority Figures. “Please ensure that Mrs. Quell arrives safely at Town Center.”

  “Thank you, oh Holy One,” Hearsay driveled while her handcuffs were removed. Anything else she may have said was smothered by the controversy. And before a fray could break out, she was whisked out of the room under Authority protection.

  “This is good news for us.” For you, is what Blasphemy meant to say, and if Virtue gave them what they wanted. But, really, what the court called “justice” was so arbitrary. What would she and Virtue actually receive for their Sins?

  “Next case. Blasphemy. Please step forward.”

  When Blasphemy stood up, Virtue wouldn’t let go of her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

  Virtue’s eyes filled with tears again, but she nodded. “And so will I,” she whispered, and then their hands broke apart.

  Blasphemy cleared the aisle and jogged down the stairs. Though she was not someone who would be considered tall by any stretch of the imagination, she stood before the judge as high as she could.

  “Are you aware of the charges that are filed against you?”

  “I am.”

  “Is there anything you have to say for yourself? Remember, you are under oath.”

  She lifted her chin and held the Holy Authority’s gaze. “My name is Blasphemy.”

  ***

  Blasphemy ran a hand over her smooth head. It was only hair.

  She licked the inside of the newly placed studs in her lips. And the blood, she swallowed. She would not spill a drop of it on their behalf unless she had no other option.

  She had to be carried out of the Disciplinary Wing of the Fallow Authorization Headquarters. Defiance was the main reason. She refused to make anything easy for them. Pain was a factor too. She could have avoided the physical beating that typically went along with Penance if she had been willing to give them her body in other ways. But when the vulgar offer was made, “I’d refrain if you ever intend to use it again,” was her reply.

  The three Authority Figures she had been appointed didn’t appreciate that. And after bucking like a wild beast, they decided she wasn’t worth that kind of fight . . . or the risk to their manhood. Scads of other women in her position would assume their new role “docilely,” the way they recommended.

  Dumped inside a cell in the Employment Bureau, she was stripped of her clothes, tattooed, and given a standard gray
bodysuit. She was directed to keep her head bald with a shine, wear the uniform at all times, and report to her job assignment daily and punctually if she intended to receive any of the food rations they reserved for the Fallow.

  Through an adjoining door, she then waited in a long line for her labor camp placement. Because of the severity of her crimes and the “general obstinacy” they had listed in her file, they assigned her to Lumber Procurement outside of the Lifeline. And unless her behavior “improved,” she’d be working through the winter without a hardhat or work boots.

  Lastly, her body was deposited on the floor of the Hospital Ward, although no one would likely be receiving treatment for their wounds in Sterilization Room 104, 105, 106. . .

  An obscene number of other women were scattered down the hall in various conditions . . . bruised, bloody, hysterical, detached, unconscious, semi-conscious. Among those who were awake, many of them were covering their ears. The screams rang out from behind closed doors. Though muffled by metal, brick, and distance, they were still pervasive and demoralizing.

  A few of the “patients” on her far right were only girls, no older than eight or nine. The others were about Blasphemy’s age—early to mid-twenties—those who had either surpassed Bearing Age or who had committed High Sin. Some both, perhaps. And they had all been brought out of hiding, likely forced to prove their age, after which, they’d be stripped and inspected for signs of “Impurity,” regardless of age and just on the grounds of suspicion. For those who failed, they’d be marked for Fallowization.

  And the Sterilization Wing was apparently where Fallow processing was backlogged.

  Not that there was anyone doing much walking, but if they tried to move about the hallway—locked with wired glass walls at both ends, no open doors, no windows—it would have taken caution and sidestepping.

  The Authorities didn’t have much trouble, though. They weren’t concerned about what they stepped on. The women here were no longer a who because their identities had been taken from them. In place of a name, they had a Fallow Identification Code tattooed into their forearms. Blasphemy’s said, “L4089D17.”

  From what she had learned about Fallowization, the numbers were just that . . . numbers to specify a before or after, but the letters said something about where their placement would be. So the “L” probably meant “Lumber” and maybe the “D” said something about the cell block and bunk number.

  “What does yours say?” a woman asked her neighbor. She was speaking to the sickly and slightly older woman who sat beside Blasphemy.

  They both looked at their arms. “P6746S11.”

  “Oh, look. I’m a ‘P6780.’ But I’m Z18. What do you think that means?”

  The woman next to Blasphemy simply shrugged as if too weary to speculate.

  Blasphemy then shared what she knew: “Job site and bed assignment.” But she didn’t particularly care what her specific code meant. It was not as if she would arrive there. Citizens were banned from helping the Fallow, forcing many to do their jobs as mandated. It came with a bed, shelter, food, and basic medical care.

  There were plenty of Fallow who survived on their own, though. But there was always the risk of discovery and the subsequent review by the Disciplinary Committee, which meant they’d be subjected to more Penance and returned to their posts.

  Blasphemy would do her best to keep The Verity Chronicles going in Herald’s stead and didn’t intend to get caught again. There could be money there, eventually, especially if she ever got her camera back. Anyone else on staff who survived and wasn’t yet scared into submission would probably write again as well.

  The door in front of Blasphemy suddenly flew open. Inside there was a woman vomiting into a bucket. When she hobbled out, she was hunched over the bloodstains at her hips.

  An unsympathetic nurse—who had a wedding band and a broad diamond on her pudgy, masculine finger—held up a clipboard and called out, “P6746S11.”

  The poor woman next to Blasphemy took a gulp and then followed the nurse inside the room, limping already. The door closed with a click, presumably locked shut.

  And the curious woman two spots over scooted into her place. “I heard they take out your entire reproductive system.”

  “They used to. But these days, it depends on the surgeon,” Blasphemy answered knowledgeably. She was well-read on the subject, thanks to what she and other Chronicles writers had unearthed from various sources. “There are some who are complete sadists, more than any government official would like to admit. Those who fall into this category tend to remove whatever parts of us that they can get away with for the sake of ‘practice,’ and the use of anesthesia is, of course, optional. But the ‘pious’ prefer that we keep our female ‘curse.’ And this would require ovaries and a uterus. Arguably speaking, there are probably surgeons who value their time and prefer to keep costs low. It ends up being more money in their pockets. So the smart, thrifty, and efficient would simply ‘tube-tie’ so they can be home in time for a nice supper. And since there are so many of us here today and because there are a number of eyes ‘watching,’ I would think the ‘curse’ is ours to keep no matter what.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  By now, everyone in Blasphemy’s immediate area had tuned in to every word she had said. “Have you ever read The Verity Chronicles?” she asked the gawkers.

  She received only a few nods.

  “No. It’s illegal!”

  “Well, maybe it’s time you start.”

  “I’ve heard they’ve disbanded the Chronicles and sentenced their leaders to death,” a woman across the hall whispered to her neighbor.

  “Do you think the women on staff will forget how to use a pen?” was Blasphemy’s answer for them.

  Another woman pointed her swollen gaze at Blasphemy. “But how could they look each other in the eye after this?” She swept her arms out.

  “Where would they find the hope they’d need to inspire others?” More heads turned in Blasphemy’s direction. “Fallowization may as well be a death sentence.”

  “With that attitude, the men at the top will always win,” Blasphemy informed them all, and loudly too. She earned a look from the closest Authority Figure, who shifted his fat body in his chair. But he must have decided she wasn’t worth any exertion. And his eyes returned to his attempt at a nap. “How could you possibly put an end to a system you wholeheartedly buy into?”

  This subdued the women around her. And it was just as well. Blasphemy’s patience for the willfully ignorant had officially run out.

  She began looking around for some sign of weakness. What would Gospel notice if he was in her position? How many Authority Figures were at their posts at any given time? What would be in the room in front of her when the door opened? She remembered the surgical table, a metal cart, and plenty of natural light had hit her in the eye, a sure sign of a window or two. . . .

  But then she stopped and resigned, closing her eyes. Who would want to bring more children into this world anyway? She considered herself lucky that she was a mother already and would never have to wonder what that felt like. How wonderful and rewarding, and how terrifying.

  Blasphemy never gave anyone her real name and forced herself to believe, as a result, her daughter was still safely in the care of her mother. If all went well, she would see them both soon. The Authorities could beat her, ink her, stick metal through her face, desexualize her, and deliver her to her post. But unless they kept her in chains, she would not stay, and even if they did, she would not work.

  The doors continued to open and close, for the announcement of code after code, and eventually. . . “L4089D17.”

  Blasphemy didn’t have to check her arm. She had hers memorized.

  And she walked into Room 104, no limping, no sniveling, no tears, no delays. She lay down where she was instructed to do so.

  “I’m sorry,” the surgeon said to her from across the room, his tone eerily meek. “We ran out of anesthesia days ago.
This year’s Purge has been quite the phenomenon. I’ve never seen anything like it.” While the nurse handcuffed her to the bed, the surgeon appeared beside her wearing a blood-spattered white coat. He smiled at her, right before maneuvering a wooden dowel into her mouth. It was already covered from end to end with teeth marks. “This will hurt a little.”

  Chapter 9

  Virtue

  Virtue had a feeling she’d be one of the last of her peers to receive Penance. And she hated being right. On top of everything she had done—or failed to do—she had to sit there quietly and witness everyone else suffer. Even her tears could not wash the blood from her hands.

  Corollary’s case had been unusual. Nonetheless, it was as heartbreaking as some of the others she’d seen.

  He wouldn’t supply his legal name: “My name is Corollary.” But his expertise gave away his identity . . . Dr. James Ashforth. His punishment for High Treason and evading the truth under oath would have been the End of the Line and death by hanging.

  Before the gavel cracked and the decision went to the Verdict Panel, his wife, Clara, stumbled from the gallery, calling out his name, weaving forward to reach his side. “His research has never challenged God or the Redeemer. It’s accomplished more good for our town than evil. He saves lives, I tell you! Isn’t that the work of God?”

  “There is no greater good than God and there’s only one path to Truth,” the Moral Advocate countered. “To suggest another way is, in fact, treasonous.”

  “All in favor, say ‘aye,’” called the Holy Authority.

  There were shouts of agreement. Hands rose. But the Panel was split—six in favor, six in disagreement, and three were undecided.

  It was up to the Holy Authority to make the final ruling.

  “I beg you,” Clara cried out, on her knees, her hands folded as if she was making an appeal to God as well. “We have children! They won’t survive without him. Take me instead!”