San Damien and the Red Daggers
by Brian Yapko
Chapter 8: The Monster
part 2
Pound often worked early in the morning and frequently slept in his office since he also had an attached bed and bath annex. I arranged with him late yesterday to meet with him privately at 05:00 this morning. He despised me for the plea deal I arranged on behalf of the Numen boy, Devon Quindes, but I told him I had information relevant to his election campaign which would “set all things right.” He understood me to mean that I had information which might help his campaign. I did not disabuse him.
I came to his office. He had the lights on. He was working. He told me I had gall coming to see him. He imagined that I had come to beg his forgiveness “for betraying Xanthe by conspiring with Numen scum.”
I closed his door even though no one else was in the building. “Funny you should bring up the subject of betraying Xanthe,” I said. His response: “What the &*#% are you talking about, Marlow?” I paused. Then I whispered one word: “Koa” — the man who had led the Red Daggers in their scheme against San Damien.
Pound had ice-water in his veins. He smiled and sneered. “Try and prove it,” he said.
“Koa,” I said. “A mere voice on a hawk. Words on airpost casts. A holo presence. Koa, the mysterious benefactor who supposedly funded Martian terraforming such that the Red Daggers would go to their graves denying his existence and protecting his identity. You, Minister. All you.”
“Go to hell, Marlow. You’re full of shit.”
I started pacing. Calmly. The way I pace in front of juries when I’m making a closing argument. “An interesting phrase, ‘Go to hell,’ ” I said. “Your favorite phrase, at least in Martian Standard. Go to hell. You wrote it to me. You wrote it on your final letter to the Red Daggers. And, just on a hunch, when I was trying to think like you — a painful process, believe me — it occurred to me. It’s the password to your coded documents.”
He stared at me clearly unnerved. “You wouldn’t dare—”
“I would and I did. You’re a simple man, Pound. Too simple. Everything is black and white. And you’re careless.” I reached into my pocket. “You see this? A memdisk, of course. Would you like to know what it contains?” I then rattled off a summary of documents that were frozen into its neurals.
It was the same memdisk that I had already copied for distribution to you, President Jana. I also made copies for each member of the Xanthean cabinet, the Numen Justice Center and to Alistair McAlistair of the Panvision News Service. Just in case. Documents which proved Absalom Pound’s connection to contractors who left the dome unfinished and vulnerable to attack. Documents which proved his motivations for seeing the dome destroyed. Documents which proved that Absalom Pound was Koa.
“I’ll have you arrested, Marlow, for violating state secrets.” Oh, Pound was unnerved alright.
“No, Pound, it’s you who will be arrested. For treason. And for mass murder. I was a fool not to realize it earlier, Koa,” I said. “So many of the answers were sitting in front of me in the Red Daggers trial documents. Acme Pantheon Domes... the contractors that were building the dome at San Damien left the outer shell unfinished because of non-payment. All manipulated. A.P. stands for Absalom Pound. You own the company, you received funding from the Xanthean Treasury earmarked for dome construction, you created a dummy corporation and then diverted those funds to your own election campaign.
“You didn’t just suddenly come up with this idea of unseating President Jana. You’ve been plotting against Elinor and Henry Jana for two years. And the news services are going to love the private notes you wrote to yourself. Once you got Henry Jana out of the way, you saw Elinor Jana as an easy target. You’ve put everything in place for a blitz campaign. You were going to announce your candidacy in three days, on Announcement Day. And you were going to pay for your campaign with blood money, the money that should have paid for the dome.”
Pound stood up. He pretended to be calm, but I saw sweat trickle down his cheek. “All very interesting, Marlow. But why would I destroy an entire dome for the sake of politics? I could win this election with or without San Damien.”
“Sit down, Pound. The list goes on and on. You wanted Henry Jana dead. Your company’s insurance claim on the dome made you a hundred times richer. You were happy to see the ‘blended dome’ experiment fail due to your pathological hatred of the Numen. And how readily you acted to drive a wedge between Trads and Numen by having the Red Daggers become the subject of a massive campaign of hate.”
“And what do you propose to do with these documents?” His smug smile had warped into a dark scowl.
“The memdisks have been sent. If you live beyond this morning, Minister Pound, I plan to have you arrested, forced from office and — if I have my way — hanged until your neck snaps, sir. Just like the Numen men whose death is on your hands. Along with my wife, Henry Jana and 711 others.
“Of course, there’s one other possible resolution, Minister. I know the code to erase the memdisks remotely. It’s recorded nowhere but in my head. I would consider broadcasting that code. You could retain your reputation as a Xanthean patriot. Your role in history would be preserved.”
He licked his lips. “What do you want me to do, Marlow?”
“To borrow your phraseology: Do the right thing and put yourself out of our misery.” I nodded to the samurai sword that hung on the wall over his desk. “Do the right thing, sir.” I then pulled out a Numen muon gun and pointed it at him. “Or should I do it for you?”
I freely confess my possession of a muon gun which I obtained illegally in Burroughs. Yes, Madame President, I realize that the possession of a muon gun subjects me to criminal charges under the Xanthean Penal Code. But, whatever you may decide the consequences to be, I freely admit my possession of this gun and the fact that I aimed it at your Minister of Habitation.
He stared at me in apparent disbelief. “You don’t have it in you, Marlow. You wouldn’t dare—”
At this point I shouted at him — something I’ve never done in ten years working under him — “You murdered my wife! You better damned-to-hell well believe that I would dare, you vile piece of vermin-shit!”
He just swallowed. I breathed deeply trying to restore some semblance of calm. After a moment: “The memdisks have been sent, Minister Pound. History will know. You could kill me now and it wouldn’t matter. I can see how much you want to. I know you have a clutch in your desk drawer that you’re itching to grab. But you’ll never get to it.” I motioned him away from the desk.
“I won’t lie, Pound, I want to watch you die. But I want to hear about San Damien from your own lips. I understand the how. I even understand the goals this served. But you had a dozen other ways to accomplish the same goals without committing mass murder. Why in the name of hell did you do this?”
Pound started to move towards the desk and I stopped him. His eyes burned. Then his voice roared in a way that I’ve never heard in all the years I’ve worked under him. “Do you even have to ask, Marlow? Is that how far you’ve gone to accommodate the barbarians? San Damien was a frepping abomination!”
His fist pounded the wall behind him, and I took a step back. “We live on a planet that will never be a second Earth. Never! There are twenty million people on this frepping planet, Marlow. That’s it! Maybe that sounds like a lot to you, but Earth had over fifteen billion by the time Dolf-Yago hit. We are the dregs of what survives of humanity. And that means triaging who gets the chance to live.
“The frepping Numen animals that you seem to like so much — they were a science experiment. They dare to claim ownership of the surface of Mars, but they’re fools. No one owns that surface and never will! As Mars returns to nature, the Lizards are finally discovering reality. Restore the satellite array? Plant more dead forests? Genetically engineer more Arean rodents? Ridiculous! To try to modify this planet for them is a luxury we can’t afford!
“What fools are we to think we could maintain an artificial magnetic field into perpetuity? And for why? To keep the Numen and the barzoom mice and the genetically engineered pinon trees alive? All we can do is build domes or live underground. We have wasted a phenomenal amount of resources on the Numen with zero return. For five hundred years! And now, with that reality sinking in, they invade our domes? They expect us to stop breathing proper air or having a livable temperature so as to accommodate them? These subhuman terrorists who have destroyed and pillaged through the centuries?
“Look at you, Marlow! Look at the burn marks on your neck. The Numen gave those to you twenty years ago when you were in the XPF. In Burroughs, no less. Don’t look surprised. You think I didn’t research you a long time ago? You tried to help these animals, and they nearly killed you in thanks. How many months in the hospital, Marlow? Four? Regrowing skin, hair, learning to see again from what they did to your eyes? Animals. And I knew when I hired you as an advocate for Habitation Justice that you hated the Numen as much as I. So just broadcast the destruct code to your collection of memdisks and let’s pretend this little meeting never happened.”
I was momentarily speechless. It pains me to confess that much of what he said is exactly what I’d thought for years. Still, listening to Pound articulate these ideas in a hateful rant left me incandescent with rage. If I didn’t stand up for the Numen, in the end who would speak for me? I made the only choice possible.
“You’re wrong, Pound,“ I shouted. “You’re wrong and you’re delusional. I don’t hate the Numen. With all that they’ve contributed to science? To culture? To Mars? I won’t betray them the way you have. I won’t betray Mars the way you have. It’s you who would destroy this planet. Dome by dome. Look in the mirror, Pound. Can’t you see that it’s you who are the monster? A mass murderer: my wife, president Jana and 711 other innocent souls who suffered from your betrayal. And the Red Daggers. Listen to me, Pound. Either you go to the gallows and die in disgrace, or you die here. This morning. Either by your hand — or mine — either with your reputation intact or in tatters. That’s all that’s left to you, sir. You have one minute to decide.”
Pound stared at me for a few seconds. “I have to admit I underestimated you, Marlow.” I watched as he reached his hand underneath the top of his desk — he succeeding in opening the drawer and grabbed his clutch. I told him to drop his weapon. He refused to do so. To his shock, I vaporized it in his hand.
Next I advised him that the memdisks directed to you and the others would be automatically received by the recipients within the hour if I didn’t transmit the destruct code.
“You can’t get away with this, Marlow,” he sneered.
“I already have, Pound. Do you think I wouldn’t die to see my wife avenged? To see justice for Henry Jana? For the other hundreds of victims? You miserable pile of hatred and Zantine scum,” I said. “For the first time in your poisonous life, do the right thing.” I again pointed at the samurai sword that hung on his wall.
“Never!” he said.
Now I aimed the muon gun at one of his statues. I fired and the statue disintegrated into a million pieces. Then I pointed it at the awards he had received from the leaders of Xanthe. Vaporized. Then I pointed it at his wall full of books. Vaporized, one by one by one. His life was literally crumbling around him. I then again pointed the gun at him. Very quietly I said, “Minister Pound, do the right thing. Before it’s too late. At least history will remember you as a patriot.”
By this time, surrounded by the destruction of everything he had worked for, he quivered. Pound seemed utterly defeated. He turned to the wall and slowly removed the samurai sword. Then he unexpectedly ran towards me with it as if he intended to behead me. I blasted the muon gun at his desk to stop him. It partially disintegrated and, as it did so, it caught fire. Pound had some kind of incendiary device hidden in a drawer. At that point the alarms went off and the firewall sealed us into his office. It didn’t matter if we died together. But the fire stopped his assault on reality. He stared at me, and for the first time there was pleading in his eyes.
“Be reasonable, Marlow,” he said.
“I am, Pound. More than you deserve. Death by gallows in public like the Numen you despise, death by muon gun with your reputation destroyed, or death in accordance with your own Zantine values, zepku, with your reputation intact.” Now the sprinklers came on and put out the fire. We were both soaking wet and coughing at this point. I didn’t care. Pound was utterly defeated.
I watched as he slowly, reluctantly kneeled on the floor in the middle of the room. “What I did, I did for Mars,” he said. Then he bared his teeth at me and said, “Watch how a real man dies, Marlow.” Then he thrust the sword into his belly. I held back from vomiting and forced myself to watch. The satisfaction of revenge pulsed through my veins. “Go to hell, traitor,” I hissed.
He mocked me through his pain. “I’ll see you there, Marlow.” His guts spilled out onto the floor as the water still showered on us from the ceiling. And then he died. I dropped the muon gun on the floor and disabled the firewall. I saw from the autron that security was on its way.
I then honored my end of the bargain and transmitted the code wiping the neurals of the memdisks I had sent out, leaving only the one I had in my pocket and a second one in a concealed location. Madam President, no one but you and I need know of Pound’s treachery.
By the time security got there, I was able to let them know about the unbelievable scene I had come upon: an Absalom Pound who had lost his sanity, who had threatened to plunge a sword into his belly and who had started a fire by discharging an illegal muon gun at me to keep me from stopping him. There was no reason to tell them otherwise. There were only two witnesses to what occurred. One of them is now dead. There can be no legally-supported arrest or a prosecution.
That is unless, Madam President, you choose to have me indicted for what I’ve done and use this confidential letter as my confession. But if I testify, I will tell the whole truth about your Minister of Habitation Justice. I doubt your administration will survive the scandal. You will never win re-election. And consider this, President Jana: my admittedly unorthodox actions have served justice for the victims of San Damien, the Red Daggers who were wrongfully executed, your husband, my wife. And a Numen boy named Devon Quindes.
I will await your response.
Adrian Marlow, Senior Advocate for Xanthe Habitation Justice
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Copyright © 2023 by Brian Yapko
