Darkman

Ezmerel found his wife sitting at the kitchen table. The food was prepared and laid out, but she was not eating. Her hands wrung her napkin compulsively. Ezmerel sat down and examined his dinner – a finger size log of something resembling meat, two logs of something white, presumably some sort of potato by-product, and a small pile of green mush. It was the same nearly every day, sometimes the meat was missing, but tonight Ezmerel found it very appetizing.

"What’s wrong with you?" his wife asked, still molesting her napkin in lieu of food. "You have such a strange look in your eye. I’ve never seen you like this before."

Hope! Ezmerel thought, almost laughing out loud.It is hope you see in my eyes, darling wife, and you do not realize it! I did not realize it myself! It has been so long since any have seen the look of hope!

"Why are you smiling at me like that?" she sobbed, dabbing the corners of her eyes with the mauled napkin.

Ezmerel continued to smile, cutting a log of meat in two and devouring the larger half. His right cheek swelled and his smile grew larger, his wife threw her napkin on the floor and ran crying to the bedroom. Ezmerel eyed her plate for a moment before transferring her meat portion to his own. He continued to smile and eat.

My, God! It really is a sense of hope! he thought.

It was all due to the note. He received it at work, the most public and dangerous place for such shady activities, but in the most covert and surprising of ways. Amidst the usual stack of pages covered with endless strings of numbers, he suddenly came across a small piece of fragile, nearly transparent paper.

it said. Ezmerel casually placed his hand over it and maneuvered it carefully to his jacket pocket. He allowed himself a moment to slide it between his stubby fingers, then let it drop to the bottom of the pocket. What did it mean? Who could make me remember who I am? Who knows I do not remember? The fantastic impact of the simple message was too much for Ezmerel to decipher. Was it a test? A trap? He continued to work with more energy than usual. A slow quickening of memories crawled up from the depths of his sunken soul. No clear images, just vague recollections of times so much better than the ones he could remember. It was hard to concentrate on work. By the time the Quitting Bell rang over the metropolis, Ezmerel’s head was spinning. On his way home he turned a corner and saw an incredible sunset shining before him. The sky was aflame.

The coil! a voice screamed inside his head, Find the coil! It is your only power! and Ezmerel watched his first sunset in almost ten years. As he examined Earth’s everyday miracle, a clear picture of his life began to develop in his mind. He remembered his father, his mother, the chip in his head, his complete surrender to the system that destroyed everything dear to him. But, through all the resurrected misery, Ezmerel was thrilled to remember. It was time to remember.

Ezmerel awoke aware that he had been screaming. His wife came bustling in, half asleep and frantic with fear. The cold metal floor stung her toes. She jumped onto the bed, then back to the cold floor again when she looked at Ezmerel’s unfocused eyes buried deep in his perspiring, puffy face, unable to decide which was worse.

Ezmerel had a very difficult time falling asleep, thoughts of the past continued bubbling up from the bottomless pit he had dug for them. When he finally slipped away to dreaming he was young again, freshly broken, some glimmers of pride and hope still burning within him. He dreamt of his first hovercycle ride. It was as frightening as the first time around. Ezmerel needed a moment to regain reality.

"That’s it," his wife screamed, "I’m leaving you this instant."

"The Empire does not endorse the philosophy of divorce," Ezmerel said with a smirk.

"The Empire be damned!" she yelled, making herself jump and clasping both hands over her mouth. She ran to the closet and pulled out a suitcase. "I didn’t mean that," she cried.

"Yes, you did," Ezmerel said.

"I certainly did not! You’re a monster. You see what madness you drive me to? I love the Empire and you make me damn their name! I hate you!" She dumped the contents of a few drawers into the suitcase, kicked her feet into some shoes, and stormed out.

Where does she have to go? Ezmerel wondered. To her family? Does she have any family? None that he was aware of. He smiled at the silence and emptiness she left behind, glad to be alone. He laid back down, ready to chase sleep once again, and his smile faded. It was true, the Empire did not endorse the philosophy of divorce. If the authorities became aware of his wife leaving him his Probationary Surveillance Chip could be reactivated, or he could be put up for another Review, or...

Ezmerel slept no more that night.

When the Awakening Bell rolled its all-encompassing cacophony across the top of the city, Ezmerel was still staring up at his ceiling. His life had been numbingly placid for so long, and it was turned upside down in a single evening. Rediscovered hope still saturated him, but the fear of what it may have caused contaminated it. There was no way of knowing what his wife would do, what she would tell to whom, what would happen to him if they found out. Worst of all, he would not know until they already had him. It was their way. There was never time to run.

His walk to work took a bit longer than usual, his lack of sleep tiring his legs, and when he arrived at his desk just as the Working Bell filled the air with its oppressive tones, his supervisor eyed him suspiciously. It was never good to be the last one to arrive. That is why everyone arrived at the same time every morning, exactly one minute before the Working Bell.

With the sound of the bell the Counter’s Office exploded with the sound of typing. Ezmerel fumbled with his pages and glanced nervously about at the many rows of desks. None of his fellow Counters looked at him, they focused exclusively on their work. The Watcher of Ezmerel’s row, however, was looking at him ever more venomously. Ezmerel composed himself quickly and began to type. He tried to quicken his pace a bit to make up for his floundering.

Almost ten hours later Ezmerel was surprised by another note. It was on top of the final sheet in his pile, obviously intended to be found just as the day ended.

it read. Ezmerel once again slid the note casually into his pocket, thankful that his supervisor was at the far end of the row, and rushed to finish his last page of entries, which he managed to do just as the Quitting Bell brought the hundreds of typists to their feet. Ezmerel made sure he was not the last one standing in his row.

What did it all mean? Was it really his birthday? He would not know. For so long he had neglected to keep track of the days, mindlessly responding to the bells, he was unaware of what month it was, never mind the specific day.

Was his father alive? Why would his friends not have come for him sooner? Why had he suffered all these years of agony alone? What did they want from him? What were they offering him? What was there to "take out"? Ezmerel pondered the dilemma of the notes while watching a violently orange and pink sunset.

Thick twilight widened the growing shadows of the city into a heavy blanket of dusk as Ezmerel approached his home. As the door slowly lowered itself to allow entrance, the hole it opened was even darker than the gloom growing outside. Ezmerel had been lonely for so long, but at least he had not been coming home to an empty house. It made him remember just how precarious his position was. Strangers claiming to know his father were after him, their intentions veiled behind anonymity; the Empire may or may not be after him, he had no way of knowing, but he knew if they were their intentions would be anything but good. So Ezmerel surmised his condition as he dragged himself up into the dark house. He was exhausted.

Closing the door without turning on the lights, Ezmerel stood motionless in complete darkness. It had been ten years since he had cared for himself, his wife taking care of all the domestic chores, and it surprised him to discover that he missed her. If he only knew enough about her to try and find her, to ask her to come back, to apologize for his relentless withdrawal from the world... but there was no solution there. His life had been stolen from him long ago, there was no way to recover it now.

With a pathetic sigh he illuminated the room and went to the kitchen. The foil packets of food were in their usual delivery tube on the wall, still portions for two – a good sign – and Ezmerel placed both in the radiator to heat. Everything was coming apart, but at least he could eat well. As the radiator hummed with effort, Ezmerel went to the bedroom to change. He closed and locked the door, as he had always done when disrobing, and laughed at himself in the dark. He thought of opening the door and disrobing without the usual security, but as he reached for the lock something stopped him. He frowned. Breaking such old habits was frightening. He returned to the kitchen and mounded the heated food on a plate, creating a gelatinous, green and orange mess. No meat today. He slouched into a chair and began eating resignedly. Before he could finish the top half of the pile, his doorbell rang.

His fork clattered to the floor, his eyes stared blankly at the table, his mouth fell open, tongue coated with vomitous slop. They had come. But which they? The bell rang three more times with too short a pause. Must be the Empire, come to collect another of the herd, come to gather the life they ruined and put it to a torturous, merciful end. The new glimmers of hope shining within him were extinguished as he turned off the kitchen light, plate of slop still festering on the table, and walked to the front door.

The scene unveiled slowly as the door slid open – the slow crawling darkness of the sky, the darker outlines of trees against the fading sunset, the black hovercar on the front walk, the tops of the savagely spiked, gray helmets of Empirical Police. Ezmerel watched the door slide against the ground and began walking down as the anxious police hurried up. He was grabbed quickly by each arm, a hand slapped the back of his neck and he felt a sharp pain. His knees buckled, and he was dragged quickly into the hovercar as it lurched violently into the air.

"Just relax, Ezmerel," one of the officers said. Ezmerel could not tell which had spoken through their intimidating faceplate. "You’re safe now."

Ezmerel was overwhelmed by the lie. His life flashed before his eyes and he fainted in the face of doom.

Ezmerel awoke weightless. He jerked, his eyes flying open, thinking he was under water but finding himself perfectly dry, breathing easily. Before him was a dark windshield – wherever they were it was still night – and the backs of two, unhelmeted heads. Never before had the sky been so dark, the stars shined so bright. Ezmerel was happy to die on such a beautiful night. He admired the sky quietly, not struggling against his strange weightlessness, the feeling of falling up. The men in the front did not speak and Ezmerel did not wish to break the silence.

"I don’t know about this guy," the driver said, his head turning a bit to show Ezmerel a crescent shadow of profile. "Do you seriously think he’s man enough?"

"Not now," the passenger said, more a command than suggestion. "But Dr. Vonnegut... Damn it, we’ve talked about this. Philosophize later, just drive."

Man enough? Ezmerel had never been a man. What was all this?

It did not take long for Ezmerel to realize that he was much farther from home than he thought. In the void outside the windshield a monumentally vast, spherical structure appeared, spinning soundlessly in nothingness.

"Where are we?" he ventured nervously, revealing his consciousness.

Both men turned to look at him. They exchanged nervous glances.

"Space," the pilot said.

"Wha... wha..." Ezmerel stammered.

The men exchanged a laugh.

Ezmerel did his best to compose himself and asked, "So, is that the moon?"

The men laughed uproariously, needing to wipe tears from their eyes before regaining themselves.

"The moon," the pilot muttered, still giggling, causing his companion to burst out again for a moment. "No," he said. "It is not the moon. Ezmerel Cantone, that is the I.S.S. Einstein. The final haven of civilization."

The men were suddenly stoic. Ezmerel was still clueless as to his situation, but he was definitely not in the Empire anymore.

As the I.S.S. Einstein grew to encompass their entire field of vision, the pilot began speaking into a radio in a cryptic code Ezmerel could not understand. A section of the Einstein slid away and their small ship was swallowed by the artificial moon.

It was the largest room Ezmerel had ever seen, minisculing the awinspiring vestibule of the New Dimrot Center of Empirical Justice. There were dozens of spacecraft like the one they climbed out of, all painted with the official marks of the Empire. It was a nightmarish picture that did not mean what it seemed. These men were surely not Empirical Police, this place was surely not an Empirical stronghold, but everywhere Ezmerel looked he saw the signs of Empirical occupation.

"You aren’t really with the Empire, are you?" Ezmerel asked.

"No, Ezmerel," the pilot said, leading him to one of dozens of doors in the vast hanger. "We are a complicated bunch, but I am not the best suited for giving you the details. Follow me, and I will bring you to someone who can answer all your questions."

The man spoke to Ezmerel as one would a child. It was bothersome, deflating, but there was also a reluctant kindness in his tone. These men wanted something from him, something he was sure he would not want to give, but he felt the sparkles of hope return. Somehow, these were the good guys. Strange men hiding in the frontier of space, detached from the horrors of the world but imitating its most horrific element, were the good guys. Ezmerel tried not to worry about what they would ask of him.

The I.S.S. Einstein was confusingly fascinating. Ezmerel’s head turned back and forth ceaselessly, a giant, nervous smile twitching frantically across his face, as the faux-Empirials lead him through a maze of curved corridors lined with so-many-million lights and screens and panels and passages, and somehow it felt like he was walking on the ceiling. The rest of Einstein’s inhabitants did not resemble Empirical staff at all. Most of them wore long, white robes. Ezmerel thought of heaven, these people were the angels who would save him from the world they had already taken him away from – was he already dead? – and the rest wore the most vibrant colors – yellows, reds, greens, blues, even the blacks were somehow more vivid than his own. If this was heaven he would not be disappointed.

"Here we are, Ezmerel," the pilot said. He stopped short and Ezmerel walked right into him. "Take it easy," he said, shoving Ezmerel through a hole that opened up in the wall. It closed quickly and Ezmerel was left alone.

Ezmerel recognized the room as some sort of hospital – metal beds, trays of intimidating tools and such. Ezmerel hated hospitals. He had never known anyone to come out of one alive. With muffled growls of effort and fear he tried to rediscover the invisible door in the wall, but he did not understand how it worked, he saw no controls of any kind. His hands moved like a pair of ragged claws across the surface of the wall, grasping desperately at nothing.

"Excuse me."

Ezmerel yelped and jumped, turning in the air to find one of the white-jacketed angels standing behind him.

"Are you all right, Mr. Cantone?" the angel asked. He took Ezmerel’s hand and led him to the nearest table. "You seem a bit frazzled. But I suppose that is to be expected. I’m sure this must be a trying time for you."

Ezmerel could not speak, he was enchanted by the sound of the angel’s voice and his aged but somehow ageless appearance. His skin was the pallor of ancient marble and his features were carved with the expertise of a true master. When Ezmerel looked into the angel’s eyes he saw the entire history of the world, the stars, everything. If this was heaven, there was no doubt he now stood before God. The feeling of dreaming filled him and he found himself facedown on the table.

"Just relax and listen to me, Mr. Cantone," the angel said, his voice getting ever softer, soothing. "I’m here to help you, to set you free. You are going to be a very important man, Mr. Cantone. But you can relax now. This will be over soon. Just listen to my voice... and sleep."

The world faded.

The angel snapped his fingers and Ezmerel awoke with a start. The spotlight shining in his face burned his eyes, making them clamp back shut. He put his hands over his eyes, palms out and fingers spread a bit, and opened them again cautiously. The angel loomed over him in the blinding light. It seemed an appropriate pose.

"That’s right, Mr. Cantone," the enchanting voice chimed, "just sit up nice and slow. You may be a bit disoriented for a few minutes, but that will pass quickly enough."

Ezmerel swung his legs over the side of the table and pushed himself up to a sitting position. His head lolled sleepily on his shoulders. "What happened?" he asked. "Are you an angel? You did something to my soul didn’t you?"

"An angel?" the angel laughed. "Oh, certainly not, Mr. Cantone. I’m a doctor. My name is Dr. Vonnegut and your soul is right where I found it, although it may feel a bit different now that it is no longer being weighed down by this." He held up some sort of square, metal bug with a thick row of tiny legs on either side.

"That bug was in me?" Ezmerel moaned, his fear reviving him. "How did it..."

"It is not a bug, Mr. Cantone. It’s a computer chip of sorts. It is the Empirical Probation Chip from your neck," Dr. Vonnegut said.

Ezmerel screamed and grabbed at the chip. Dr. Vonnegut slid it quickly into his pocket and Ezmerel threw himself to the floor trying to get at it. "Put it back! Put it back!" he begged, tears staining his cheeks as he pulled desperately on Dr. Vonnegut’s right jacket sleeve. "They will come for me! You must put it back!"

"Please, Mr. Cantone, calm down. No one is coming for you. They haven’t been tracking you for years," Dr. Vonnegut said.

Once again, Ezmerel found himself under the control of that angelic voice. He was suddenly sitting on the table again, the tears gone from his eyes, fear no longer gripping his thoughts. This man was no simple doctor, he had to be an angel.

"So you mean to save me?" Ezmerel said, for he could think of nothing else an angel would do. Why else would he remove the Probation Chip?

"I intend to help you save yourself, Mr. Cantone," Dr. Vonnegut replied. "But we have no time for that now. We will begin that process next time. Now we must get you home."

"What?" Ezmerel cried. He jumped from the table and backed away. "You can’t send me back. You brought me up here and took out my chip and now you’re going to send me back there and they’re going to know and they’ll come for me and I won’t be able to get away no one ever gets away..." The air in his lungs finally ran out, but his lips continued to move in the imitation of speech as he hyperventilated. His knees buckled and he dropped heavily to the floor.

Dr. Vonnegut crouched over him and drew a syringe from his pocket. "You’ll be fine, Mr. Cantone. Trust me."

Ezmerel felt the needle drive deep into his shoulder.

The world faded away.

Ezmerel awoke to the invasive tolling of the Awakening Bell. He was in his own bed, dressed in his usual sleeping clothes. He rubbed the back of his neck and found no indication of surgery.

A dream? Certainly not. Dreams could never be so real. There were suppressants in the food to make sure of that. But how...

The bell ceased its tolling. It was not the time for thought, it was time for work. He would have time to think once his work was done.