Читать книгу Trekmaster - James B. Johnson - Страница 10

6. TJ

“You don’t tell me how to rule and I won’t tell you how to write poetry.” TJ said. Doesn’t matter anyway, he thought ruefully; poetry doesn’t have to rhyme any more. Don’t even think it, he told himself, don’t ruin the academia you have so carefully built. Just because some scholars had poisoned his son’s mind, he shouldn’t think seriously about interfering with the university system he was so proud of. Prince Michale stood beside him watching the executioner take the hood off his battle axe. “The hell with that poetry and book learning anyway. Your education ought to be about the Fine art of war and politics, of economics and leadership.” He’d wanted so badly a warrior-prince for a son.

“Taking a life is your idea of leadership?” Michale demanded.

“Son. you’re going to rule, you’ve got to be willing to make decisions, big and little. Life or death.” That’s one reason he’d instituted the system whereby the monarch must approve a death sentence, must determine method of execution. and must be present during the execution. He’d insisted this day that Mick accompany him.

Michale looked at him with disgust. TJ noted that the last body had been dragged off. He’d decreed slow-hanging for that one, a repeat offender who had done an S and M rape/murder. The execution due was another murderer who had killed quickly and cleanly—thus his own death would be merciful and in the twinkling of an axe.

The King and the Prince stood facing the platform where the executions were accomplished, in a flat area on the side of the palace, within eyesight of the city of Crimson Sapphire and facing out on the amaranth grain fields that covered the alluvial plain. The public was invited. TJ felt that if his executions were public, they would have both warning value to others who would rape and murder, and also they might vicariously give some the taste of death so that they would not have to murder for their own gratification. TJ knew there were some who killed for pleasure. Not for money, sex, power, jealousy, or revenge, the good, old fashioned values you were supposed to kill for.

A struggling man, short and thin, was brought up the stairs to the platform. Two guards wrestled him to his knees and locked him in the wooden mechanism which held him bent over a block, neck bared to the axeman.

The executioner shouldered his axe and walked to the edge of the platform. “Shall I carry out my duty. Sire?”

TJ nodded curtly. “Carry out your duty, executioner.” He noted Mick’s intake of breath and slight tremble. He paid no attention. The axeman wasted no time, and strode swiftly and silently to the front of the blindfolded man. His axe went high, paused, and sliced down. The only sound was a solid “thunk” as the blade cut into the timber. The killer’s head barely twitched, and rolled over on its side, an ear crumpling beneath it. TJ noted Mick blanch again. This was the third execution in a row. You’d think the kid would get used to death by now. “Just goes to show you,” he mused, thinking of an old saying, “you gonna run with the big dogs, you got to expect to get some of them big fleas.”

Michale shot a look of pure horror at him. TJ saw Summer Camp squatting next to him trying to keep a straight face.

“How can you be so callous?” Mick demanded.

“A learned trait.” he replied. “Leadership isn’t only being the host of royal dances and poetry contests.”

“Next,” came the executioner’s formal voice. A woman, kicking and struggling, appeared at the stairs. A gag muffled her screams. Her eyes were wild.

“Sire,” the herald, Alfred, spoke from his position at the foot of the stairs, “a plea for mercy has been lodged.”

“What was her crime?” TJ replied, knowing full well what her crime and those of all the others were.

“Murder of her child by neglect and abuse,” the herald fairly shouted—as he had been instructed to.

“Who asks for mercy in her behalf?” TJ said.

“Her mother.”

“What is the method of her execution?”

“You determined slow-hanging at the hearing. Sire.”

There were a few things on which TJ would never change his attitude, like barracks thieves in the army, and child abusers and rapists. This woman’s child had been consistently beaten and not sufficiently nourished. For once, TJ was glad he hadn’t seen the body (he ordinarily wished he could view the crime victim to reinforce his decisions).

He spoke loudly, voice grim. “Appeal denied, method of execution changed,” he said, and paused. The hundreds of people present would expect him to change to a more humane execution. “Method of execution changed from slow-hanging to starvation and thirst. Lock her up. No water, no food. In four days, see that she has a dull knife in her cell with her.” There. He’d done it. A new form of capital punishment. One that fit the crime, too.

Camp looked startled. “The Fed,” he whispered, “Sharon Gold.”

Michale spoke, not hiding his anger. “Yes, what about that, father?”

TJ spoke low. “They aren’t interested in individuals. They want to know about systems, cultures, governments. If they work, and how. Effectiveness is the key.”

“Barbarity is the key.” Michale said.

“Justice,” spoke TJ, his voice fraught with warning. “Perhaps we won’t have any more child abuse, no?”

“Thought you would have considered the envoy, boss,” said Camp. “Had to make sure.”

“May I leave now?” Michale asked.

“No, Mick, you stay.” Michale preferred to be called Mike. Maybe you can’t raise a son this way, TJ told himself. But he had gotten his experience the hard way, learned by bleeding and watching men die. Was that right for Michale, though? Had his own experiences of twenty bloody years perverted his outlook on life? On justice? Had he lost his concern for his fellow man? Was he too callous? And, Summer had a point. Changing the method of execution on a woman was a calculated risk. On the one hand, Sharon Gold might not notice—though he doubted that. But the hell with that, there were certain principles he would not sacrifice or compromise even for Fed entry. On the other hand, it was possible that the Fed would approve of his strong reprisals against criminals. (And, he hoped, any possible rebels within his kingdom would take equal note of his swift and deadly justice.) He wanted the strongest deterrent to crime and threats to his rule he could devise.

On the third hand, he wanted Michale to realize that being King meant hard decisions. It was time Mick learned what it was all about. Hell of a way to learn. That woman would pay a terrible price just so his son could learn a lesson. Maybe someday in the future this lesson would make a difference.

Guards led the silent woman away. But her body reflected her fear with an uncontrolled trembling and moisture stained the rags she wore.

Clouds obscured the sun and TJ glanced up. He hoped it would rain. There was something amusing about blood washing off the platform and thinning out until it colored the rivulets among the spectators. That would really be effective crowd participation. A quick wind blew those thick clouds off. Never knew what to expect from the weather, he reflected. Looking at the fields that fed off from the palace, he knew that heavy rains would turn the alluvial plain to a quagmire. That was one of the reasons he intended to build his spaceport right there—should he have the opportunity.

Another woman appeared between two soldiers at the foot of the stairs to the platform. She was scarred about the neck and had only one arm. He felt Michale tense.

“God,” whispered Michale. “Not this. I am leaving.”

Casually, TJ linked his arm with Michale’s and closed it with an iron grip. Michale gave him a startled glance and after a brief but unsuccessful tug to remove his arm, said, “I’ll stay.”

In the crowd below them, TJ saw Kellen Sing, the thumb drummer, watching him and Michale.

The woman shook loose her captors and climbed the stairs unaided. A brave one. Briefly he considered commuting the death sentence, but, observing her bearing, he knew that life imprisonment would be more cruel than the axe. To the executioner’s question, he said, “Carry out your duty.” The woman was too handy with poisons, anyway.

Prince Michale started away from whatever he was thinking with the thud of the axe. Would he never learn? TJ wondered if other monarchs had the same problems with their offspring? Or was it all fathers?