Story #333 - Speak Out

Speak Out

“Do you understand what you have been charged with, Mr. Lopenheim?” The Chief Justice Toppenfeld said as he scowled down from his bench.

“I do.” Jorn Lopenheim saw no reason to dispute facts. “I stand accused of speaking the name of an occasion long forgotten, one with no meaning – one that no reasonable society should fear.”

“That is enough!” The larger man’s face was red and shaking; a life lived in pursuit of “justice” had given him a frame that entirely filled the large chair he held and also spilled over onto the bench that represented his office. “Do you wish to further anger this court?”

Jorn smiled. “If speaking the name of Grensfest is enough to anger this esteemed judicial body, I would say that a course in anger management might be in order.”

“Guards!” Toppenfeld bellowed. “Take this man away – Lopenheim, I will see that you rot in a cell for this disgrace!”

A strike to the back of his knees took Jorn to the ground but he made no attempt to stumble forward, no attempt to save his body from the impact. Blood pooled in his mouth, thick and hot, but his point had been proven – freedom no longer existed in the Republic.

***

Twenty-two months later, Jorn was ushered into a small, dark room and told to wait. The guards hadn’t mistreated him overmuch, owing largely to the media attention his trial had received. Any injury received at the hands of jailers would easily have made front-page news, even with media controls in place, and the Republic could not risk another uprising. Jinthal VI had been a stunning failure not only in government control but a clear case of responses too severe for their precurisve acts. Thousands had been killed, though those wielding power in the Republic had convinced most citizens otherwise.

“Mr. Lopenheim?” A voice came from the darkness. “I trust you are well?”

“Tolerable,” he replied, deliberately keeping his tone light. Prison life had been relatively uneventful for him – most other prisoners supported his cause – but his term had not been without violence. Some of the guards, fearing retribution if they were too harsh in their directives had tried to bribe other prisoners to commit acts of violence, and Jorn had not escaped entirely unscathed. A scar above his left eye spoke to the potentially deadly force improvised weapons could wield, and a slight limp told the tale of violence done through pure physical rage.

“I’m so glad to hear it.” With the last a bright light came on and Jorn’s eyes slammed shut. He had not seen high wattage in nearly two years – prison cells used only the cheapest bulbs available. It took an effort not to raise his hands and shield his eyes, but Jorn refused to give whoever was watching the satisfaction. No matter what the Republic chose to throw his way, he would not be broken.

“My name is Kil Preston,” the voice went on, and Jorn opened his eyes. A thin man with black hair in a tailored suit sat across from him, the three-foot width of a metal prison table all that separated the government’s lackey from what some called its greatest threat. “You must expect I have been sent to wring a confession from you.”

Jorn laughed, but it brought no response from Preston – clearly he was one with greater control than most of those who made a career of working for the Republic. “Then you have it – I freely admit to saying –“

“Don’t!” Preston cut Jorn off before the word left his lips. “I do not need to hear your foulness!”

“Foulness?” He couldn’t help but smile. “It is a word, nothing more. I have never said I agree with the religion’s rituals or believe in its tenants, merely that to strike its name from history is no answer. Forbidding speech, forbidding words does nothing to remove memory, and cannot obliterate knowledge.”

“Certainly you can, and we will.” Preston’s voice was calm again. “I have made a study of such things. I am no agent, sent from the shadows and no prison guard sent to do you harm. The Third Prime herself ordered my presence here because of the nature of your offense. Have you truly never heard my name?”

There was something about the pompous air of the thin man, the puffed-up self-importance that rang a distant bell in Jorn’s mind.

“Wait!” He cried. “You’re not –“

“Professor and Dean of Historical Inaccuracies, Key Campus at your service. You will now explain to me why you feel such heresy is acceptable.” Preston paused to make a small motion with his left hand and the metal door opened, admitting a large guard who carried one glass of water and a slice of bread. A wave in Jorn’s direction from Preston and the guard set the items down, then backed out of the room. “I extend this olive branch, Lopenhiem. Eat, drink and explain yourself. I will not interrupt.”

Jorn attacked both bread and water with gusto, concerned they might be snatched away. He had been waiting for the chance to speak without being shouted down, and if anyone could offer that chance it would be Preston.

“Very well,” he said once he was finished. “Listen, and judge.”

Clearing his throat, he began the speech he had rehearsed for years. “The Grens were a people shrouded in mystery – Republic archives have little data on their formation or initial teachings.” Preston nodded, but did not speak. “What is clear, however, is that their traditions influenced a generation of citizens not only on their home planet but on distant worlds as well. Grensfest, as it came to be known, was taken, incorporated and modified into the religions of cultures across the quadrant, until it finally arrived on Malbeth XI. There, a number of unsavory practices were added to the basic ritual, practices that Republic newsmakers quickly capitalized on as a disgusting, twisted example of unchecked freedom’s power. Soon, a benign tradition was heralded as the birth of everything foul and dark in human hearts – with the rise of the Primes, the very mention of its name was banned.” Jorn felt tension come out of him in a rush – finally, someone was listening.

“True,” said Preston. “All of it.” His eyes narrowed. “You are more dangerous than I thought – both a prisoner and a man of thoughts. A special dispensation will have to be arranged.”

“What?” Jorn felt panic rise at the thin man’s words, magnified when the lights cut out and he heard the door bang open. The Republic’s grip was tightening.


- D