Exile

A short story about a man convicted and sentenced in a far-future human civilisation

Exile

 

     “We, the gathered jurors, in conjunction with the most honourable High Chancellor Turoth, find the defendant guilty!”
     High Justicar Xarses loud proclamation reverberated around the amphitheatres walls, amplified by unseen microphones and the perfect acoustics of the perfectly circular space. The massive, high-domed ceiling above them was awash with the bright, luminescent glow of the great Authurian fresco depicting the moment of settlement on the colony world. Great behemoth-sized ships rippled in glimmering holographic paint above the assembled audience below. Which, to be quite honest, was rather an abysmal gathering.
     Around the great step-terraced room were speckled individual or grouped members of the citizenry, dressed in fine garb of flowing robes or of tight-fitting, high collared metallic suits, which were the fashion of the time. But the audience was indeed few, and far between, at least in Leran’s opinion. Huddled down and under guard below the raised body of the centre dais, he, like everyone else in the audience, watched on as the tall Justicar dressed in purest white robes with his stole of beige silk addressed the mass. A preacher, almost. Declaring the divinity of law.
      He had been expecting the sentencing. For what he’d done, there could be no other verdict. And now, no other sentencing. Or so he hoped.
     The high justicar turned to regard him with contempt-filled eyes, aged bald head flashing in a glossy sheen from the light overhead. There was no pity there. No chance of recompence. Which was fine. Leran preferred it that way.
     “The jurors, exhalted and impartial as they are, have agreed with the High Chancellor that there could be only one sentencing worthy of such vile crimes! And, I could not agree more.”
     This was it. Finally, an end to it all. An end to the guilt. After everything, even what he’d done, he’d be rewarded in a way. He would see his wife and child again. Surely, for what he’d done, he would die.
     High Justicar Xarses raised his arms, fists clenched, high overhead in a ceremonial manner. The room went quiet, anticipation stilling the many, bored conversations that had only just been buzzing through the air of the amphitheatre. The fists came down.
     “Banishment!”
     The echoing yell trembled through the architecture of the solid marble dome around them. Leran’s stomach lurched. Banishment? That hadn’t been part of the deal. Not part of the agreement at all.
     He rose to his feet. Under the thin white linen of his issued one-piece regulation prisoner attire, well defined muscles bulged. His arms, corded with muscle, surged against the thick steel solid hexagonal wrist restraints, to no effect.
     A defiant refusal rose in his throat and he opened his mouth to argue.
     Something slammed into the back of his head and Leran fell to his knees. Sparks and stars swam in his vision. One of the two huge, hulking guards stepped back into place either side of him. The long halberd with its activated glowing hard-light blade came back down to his side in a precision movement.  Their bulging power armor gleamed burnished gold, and each movement was accented with electronic whines of the servos beneath.
     Leran tasted blood. But was wise enough to hold his tongue.
     Banishment. Not the way he would have chosen it. But eventually, the effect would be the same.
     The High Justicar upon the dais seemed not to have noticed his attempted rebuttal and was beginning to wind down his address with lengthy, flowery commendations to the jury and above all, to the Highest of Chancellors.
     Then suddenly, as one, the two huge guards behind him stepped forward in perfect unison to seize one of his arms each. Their massive, gilded and gauntleted hands dwarfed his, and he knew that even if he tried to break free, it would be futile.
     Leran allowed himself to be steered and marched across the amphitheatre and over to a section of the stepped terraced bowl that was completely devoid of spectators. The guards broke off, moving to either side, and he was left standing alone. The marble was cold against his bare feet.
     He turned to survey civilisation for one last time. While the remaining members of the audience stood in rapt attention, the Justicar was already moving down from the raised centre dais. He’d likely seen hundreds of banishments and executions before. This was nothing new to him.
     Leran turned back to face the blank, grey-white wall before him.
     There was a folding, a churning of space. The air before the wall warped and twisted, sucking inwards. The circle it made was shimmering and indistinct for a moment, then rippled and firmed.
     Through a hole in space and time, Leran looked out through the portal.
     Snow covered the ground on the other side. It seemed to roll away from him into a horizon of low hills, flurries of more snow sleeting down from a darkened, almost black sky. From where he stood, a gust of frigid icy air blasted across his form, making his long, unruly black hair flutter.
     To either side of him, the hulking guards in their power armor lowered their halberds. Foot-long shining blades of blue energy, capable of slicing through molecules pointed at his sides. They needn’t have bothered.
     Leran took a deep breath of the warmer air in the amphitheatre. And strode forward.
     There was a slight tingle as he passed through the energy boundary of the portal, and a slight pop in his ears at the pressure change. Then he was through, bare feet crunching into the frozen ground.
     With an audible snap the hole in reality back to his home planet closed. And he was cut off here, on this alien, abandoned world, forever.
     Leran slowly turned in a wide circle to survey his surroundings.
     The portal had been facing a range of low, rolling hills. As he turned away from them, other shapes began to spring from the landscape. Small at first, squares, seemingly boxes dropped haphazardly on the hillsides. He shivered in the falling snow and looked on.
     The shapes grew rapidly larger and more distinct. They had levels to them, though some seemed to have toppled over. Tall rectangles coated in snow and ice, hundreds of feet tall. And he saw their arrangement and knew them for what they were. Buildings. Echoes of a lost, bygone age. He had been sent where many exiles had before him. An abandoned world. Perhaps a lost colony planet.
     The great skyscrapers coated the landscape before him, and he saw other buildings; the towering spikes of churches, the long low rows of residences. Great soaring arches belonging to constructions he could only guess the purpose of.
     And dominating the centre, with icicles bigger than a man dripping from its perfectly curved limbs, was a needle-like towering structure taller than all else. It stood, its superstructure an exposed lattice of steel beams, upon four gargantuan legs that met and formed a square, elongating and tapering body.
     It was truly a marvel of civilisation. He didn’t even know its name. Lost, like the inhabitants of this sad, cold world.
     Distantly, he could make out a large sign, fallen and shattered but still largely intact. It lay towards him, in the wide clearing around the strange tower.
     The letters on it seemed strange and familiar, as though half-remembered.
     Leran’s mind harkened back to the days of his history classes during his youth. They’d studied the lost and primordial languages of their race. And slowly, very slowly, the strange letters began to resolve into words.
     Welcome to the Eiffel Tower.