Dr. Aly Brons holds the official classification of “Remnant,” which is one who believes that no one – not even the all-knowing Distrito – has the moral right to provide for The People. In this year 33 ATT (After The Turn), hers was not an authorized concept.
There was a time when the country was fi lled with a strong and self-reliant people. That time was BTT (Before The Turning). Now Brons revisits the profoundly edifying road she traveled up to The Turning and into the present new world order. There is so much to be retrieved and reconstructed. Contrary to Altruistic Law, she makes her final Distrito-authorized presentation directly to an apathetic audience while recognizing how grotesque her appearance must be.
Interestingly, the younger ones seem to be eyeing her with curiosity, rather than the usual disgust. Standing proudly before them, she breathes in deeply and thinks, “I know, just know, that this time someone will hear me.”
Dr. Aly Brons holds the official classification of “Remnant,” which is one who believes that no one – not even the all-knowing Distrito – has the moral right to provide for The People. In this year 33 ATT (After The Turn), hers was not an authorized concept.
There was a time when the country was fi lled with a strong and self-reliant people. That time was BTT (Before The Turning). Now Brons revisits the profoundly edifying road she traveled up to The Turning and into the present new world order. There is so much to be retrieved and reconstructed. Contrary to Altruistic Law, she makes her final Distrito-authorized presentation directly to an apathetic audience while recognizing how grotesque her appearance must be.
Interestingly, the younger ones seem to be eyeing her with curiosity, rather than the usual disgust. Standing proudly before them, she breathes in deeply and thinks, “I know, just know, that this time someone will hear me.”
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Overview
Dr. Aly Brons holds the official classification of “Remnant,” which is one who believes that no one – not even the all-knowing Distrito – has the moral right to provide for The People. In this year 33 ATT (After The Turn), hers was not an authorized concept.
There was a time when the country was fi lled with a strong and self-reliant people. That time was BTT (Before The Turning). Now Brons revisits the profoundly edifying road she traveled up to The Turning and into the present new world order. There is so much to be retrieved and reconstructed. Contrary to Altruistic Law, she makes her final Distrito-authorized presentation directly to an apathetic audience while recognizing how grotesque her appearance must be.
Interestingly, the younger ones seem to be eyeing her with curiosity, rather than the usual disgust. Standing proudly before them, she breathes in deeply and thinks, “I know, just know, that this time someone will hear me.”
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781450251686 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | iUniverse, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 08/30/2010 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 322 KB |
Read an Excerpt
IF NOT HONOUR
A Case Against a Democratized AmericaBy Marceau O'Neill
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Marceau O'NeillAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-5167-9
Chapter One
PEOPLE'S HALL, 33 ATT
She steps confidently onto the awaiting podium. Squaring to face the audience, she is instantly enveloped in a blinding light of accusatory glare. Despite her years, the woman's proud bearing is both formidable and strikingly attractive. The attendees sit motionless, watching her with apparent distaste. It is her norm to appear without Customary Concealment, so she is not bothered. As her intelligent hazel eyes carefully scan those before her, she replays the long-ago process without which today's appearance would not have been permitted.
It was in the summer of her 41st year that the BCI agent paid her an unannounced visit. Her heart still gasped in horror, recalling his cold, intimidating glare. She remembered silently praying for sustaining courage as his dark, unseeing eyes seemed to paralyze her, when she suddenly felt him thrust a paper of some sort at her and then leave as abruptly as he had arrived. Feeling fairly certain that he was actually gone, she turned her eyes to the document. It read, "Mandate to Appear." The charge cited on the next line was "Callous Disregard for the General Welfare of People's Sector 31".
The following morning, the Doctor punctually reported to the designated Tribunal cell. Having expected only the brief inconvenience of an initial hearing, she was badly shaken when a stocky deputy magistrate clasped her upper arm and dragged her into tribunal custody. Being completely unprepared to give testimony, the answers she gave in her own defense were clumsy and seemed to worsen the odds which had, apparently, been well stacked against her. There were days when she thought the trial would never end. Over a grueling seven months and five contiguous days, her persistent objections and citations of mitigating Distrito law so frustrated the Presiding Magistrate that he finally countered with threat of irreversible Distrito Censure. Had such permanent censure been invoked, she would have been subjected to indefinite containment in some remote Beneficent Care Facility. The sustained cruelties imposed by redemption procedures in those facilities could only be imagined.
The tribunal's anonymous witness had accused the Doctor of violating People's Mandate 617. The all-encompassing Global Regulatory Advisement was cited as the governing authority. 617 violations proscribed any and all manner of insensitive expression. They were customarily reported by way of the easy-to-access Peoples' Victimization Link and required no confirming identification of the accuser. Adding to the Doctor's dismay, there had been no specifics cited to describe her alleged offense. Under the Link report's "Resultant Injuries" column, an innocuous-looking "X" appeared across from "Insensitivities Suffered." In practice, the mere accusation of such vile behavior was all that was needed to instantly trigger an automated demand that an accused appear.
The prolonged ordeal came dangerously close to breaking her. Unable to prove her innocence, the Doctor was eventually deemed guilty of the alleged crime. Astonishingly, however, a codified Special Need saved her from mandatory containment. It was explained by the magistrate that her Remnant classification clearly entitled her to certain lawful protection given the disabled and, as such, GRA provisions stipulated tribunal clemency. The Doctor could barely contain her joy as the magistrate announced his decision to waive sentencing. He closed with a caveat that tribunal clemency was entirely contingent upon her maintaining a current Remnant permit that provided the requisite disclosure of her deviant status.
Throughout the ensuing years, those permit renewals were swiftly processed. More recently, however, they had become increasingly more restrictive and carried punishing penalties. The most recent renewal, which allowed today's public lecture, had been processed only hours before she was scheduled to speak. Its term had been severely reduced to a scant seventy-two hours and issuance predicated upon the advance posting of a 50-unit compliance bond. She was well aware that today's permit also carried a microscopic footnote of warning. Displayed in regulation font size 6, it threatened closed-end containment in the event even one more complaint "of any scope" came to be lodged against her.
From the raised platform, the Doctor calmly looked into her audience, recognizing how grotesque her appearance must be. Interestingly, the younger ones seemed to be eyeing her with curiosity, rather than the usual disgust. Standing proudly before them, she breathed in deeply and thought, "I know, just know, that this time someone will hear me."
Chapter Two
CHICAGO NORTHSIDE, 1948 AD
The child winced, as her tiny bare toes touched the bone-chilling asbestos tiles. Her feet instantly recoiled to the security beneath her warm woolen blankets. She was sure she had heard them talking and simply had to watch. Resolutely, she stretched her toes a second time to reach the freezing floor below. Whimpering soundlessly, she placed both feet onto the sub-zero tile and tiptoed quietly to the curtained doors.
The haunting melody wafted from the dining room. Shivering not so much from the cold, but from the fear of what she was certain to witness, the four-year-old timidly reached for the delicate lace curtains. As she drew them aside with the tips of her chilled little fingers, she thought, "Really, really careful, now ... They mustn't know I'm watching."
She peeked through the diamond-shaped glass pane and glimpsed a reassuring scene of her mother at the old mahogany upright. A bare light bulb hung from fraying ceiling wires, shedding a meager glow onto the scene below. Comforted to see her mother's luxurious auburn mane nestled about her firm, squared shoulders, the four-year-old breathed a soft sigh of relief. Stifling a sleepy yawn, her innocent eyes followed those graceful fingers glide deftly along the chipped ivory keys.
"I thought that love was over, that we were really through ..." Her mother's sweet soprano voice sang out haltingly, between sobs. Then came that rich baritone harmony: "I said I don't love her, that we'd begin anew ..." As the child blinked to clear her very blue, very sleepy eyes, she saw from the corner of her fragmented view a familiar, beautifully strong, sinewed hand reaching down to her mother. Recognizing immediately what was about to happen, little Aly felt the usual compulsion to run away, back to the safety of her warm bed. But, just as quickly, she decided to remain. Unconsciously bracing herself, she recalled dreamily, "When they dance, it's sooooo pretty!"
Her beautiful mother's eyes were swollen and looked pleadingly beyond the outstretched hand. "And you can all believe me, we sure intended to," she sang with him between stifled sobs. Although his face was outside of the child's vision, she knew that the beckoning hand was her father's. "Daddy's home!" she whispered excitedly. Now completely reassured, she closed her delicate lids and squeezed them tightly to better savor the richness of her father's hypnotic croon.
"But, we just couldn't say goodbye." Just as she began opening her bright hazel eyes, Aly saw her mother rise from the safety of the wooden piano bench and cautiously step toward the powerful arms awaiting her. As she watched her mother's tear-drenched face and fearful eyes, she was reminded of a trapped fawn, pitiful and frightened. Sobbing woefully, her mother resigned herself to those outstretched arms poised to encircle her.
The pair was moving into full view of their unseen intruder. "Oh! How I love this part! Mommy and Daddy look so happy when they dance!" mouthed the blonde child happily. She opened her eyes widely, to make sure not to miss a thing. "The chair and then the sofa, they broke right down and cried ..." She nodded approvingly, as her mother and father slowly swayed to their special tune. Daddy's rich baritone voice crooned ever so softly in Mommy's ear: "The curtain started parting for me to come inside." Aly loved the sweetness of her mommy's harmony, although now wretchedly muffled. "How beautiful," she thought. "Mommy and daddy love each other so much!"
Within a split second, the child's reverie shattered. "Please, Kurt, no!" her mother whimpered. Then, the all-too-familiar sight; her father's muscular arm drew back, and then struck forcibly against his wife's already bruised cheekbone.
"Why do you always have to ruin things?" he growled. His arms tightened about his now cringing dance partner. "Stop crying!" he hissed between clenched teeth. "Besides," he quickly countered, "I didn't hit you all that hard!" This he whispered against the now swollen, freshly welted cheek. The couple continued their shuffling dance steps. "I tell you confidentially, the tears were hard to hide ..." Tears seemed to pour from the reddened rims of her mother's frightened eyes. She remained wary with face downward, tightly restrained by her husband's arms. Such helplessness frightened Aly and tugged at her little innocent heart. "Why does it always end this way?" the child asked herself. With great caution she slowly released curtains from her chilled, tightly clenched fist. She held still for a moment and listed listened quietly. Once satisfied that she had not been discovered, she quietly tiptoed toward the security of her beckoning single cot, being very careful not to awaken her youngest brother, who slept undisturbed nearby. Noiselessly, she slid gingerly beneath her wool blanket of cardinal red-and-black Scotch plaid. She felt relieved, but took great care to remain silent.
In the distance, she heard, "No, Kurt! Please don't!" Then came the "c-r-a-c-k" Aly had grown to recognize. "More ugly bumps on Mommy's face tomorrow, that's for sure!" she affirmed innocently with a quickly nodding head. Now the heart-breaking whimpering, wretched and mournful. "I'll just go back to sleep really fast, so everything'll be OK," the child reassured herself. She closed her eyelids tightly and willed herself to safety. It only took a millisecond for Aly to expediently transport herself. Sliding deeper and deeper into her self-created stronghold, she continued to hear, "... that we just couldn't say 'goodbye'." The haunting duet grew fainter and fainter until she heard it no more. Smiling, little Aly nestled into the consoling cushion of soothing silence.
Chapter Three
PEOPLE'S HALL, 09:42
The auditorium was massive and its bare austerity unsettling. "With the permission of our Sector, I am here to speak to you as a Remnant," the old woman announced. "By pure definition, a Remnant believes that no one, not even our all-governing Sector, has the moral right to provide for them." Among the sea of vacant stares, she noticed a sprinkling of puzzlement. She smiled kindly. "I see you may have questions." Nodding slightly toward the front row, she asked, "You, Ciudadano, do you wish clarification of my statement?"
A gaunt-looking male, shamefully displaying excessive height, rose timidly to his feet. In spite of the obvious alterations to his face, she estimated his chronological age to be between 45 and 50 calendar years. It had been nearly 40 years ago when Peoples' Rights legislation was expanded to proscribe certain offending DNA properties. Immediately thereafter, pre-cloning measures were implemented. Also, any citizen who had the misfortune of displaying even one of the outlawed characteristics and/or had been born prior to the date of that retroactive mandate was legally compelled to submit to remedial correction. This man's precision-sculpted bone structure and flawless complexion were the conspicuous results of such correction. He was, indeed, a handsome fellow, she thought, even though his perfectly chiseled features were strangely devoid of expression. This starkly contrasted his body language, which exhibited a disturbing hint of agitation.
The speaker was somehow intrigued by the man's highly polished cranium, which swiveled searchingly from side to side. Upon sighting the primary feed just the podium, he steadied his stance. She guessed that this was for his optimal transmission. "I am Waters of Sector 31," he announced. "Why aren't you communicating with DI?"
"Thank you for your candor, Sir," she replied cheerfully. "As I trust you will appreciate, being a true Remnant, I am not physically equipped to communicate by the Direct Interface medium. From the represented ages of this audience, I'll assume that no one here today is physiologically capable of communicating by way of their auditory and oral senses, as am I. You see," she added hurriedly, "I was born decades before DI technology was routinely adopted and, because my advanced age renders me socially unsuitable for implementation, the Sector has excused me from undergoing surgical alterations required for that modality. To be more responsive to your question, however, and for the benefit of those of you who are unfamiliar with this matter, please allow me to briefly explain the mechanics of how we will be communicating today."
"In compliance with Altruistic Law, this public facility is DI-adaptive. Direct Interface is a technology that acts as a conduit between communicators; one citizen's brain transmits its message and that message is instantaneously received by the recipient citizen's brain. This is a commonplace genetic birthright that most, or all of you, were provided immediately upon conception. Because I am without that genetic enhancement, I continue to communicate verbally, through the action of my mouth, tongue, vocal chords, and so on. (Please see me after the lecture if you'd like more details about this.) So, in order for me to "hear" the words you think to me, they are intercepted by the DI adaptors in this auditorium, then scanned, translated, and transmitted audibly into this room in my preferred language. Furthermore, because I am not physically endowed with DI, when I speak to you, as I am doing now, my vocalized words are being instantly translated by and transmitted to you via DI. To sum this up, your communications will be projected to me audibly with basic, antiquated sound waves and mine will be digitally transmitted directly to your cerebral receptors. While Altruistic regulation requires these accommodations, I truly hope that my facial animations today, which are necessary to vocalization, become an affront to your sensibilities."
Within the periphery of her vision, the Doctor saw the tall man, eyes downcast, lowering himself back into his seat. "Mister Waters," she quickly called to him, "did you have another question?" With a promising glint of recognition and seemingly great effort, he returned to a standing position. "Yes, Doctor. It troubles me that you said something earlier about your kind - Remnants - don't believe our Sector has the moral right to provide for them." That's anti-Distrito talk, isn't it?"
She sensed mounting tension and could hear faint sounds of unrest. Bracing herself, she took one purposeful step forward, and announced: "Good people! I humbly ask your patience for only a moment, while I attempt to answer Mister Water's question. Please show us the courtesy of your attention."
Dr. Brons stood with proud conviction, posture boldly erect. "Yes, you do understand me correctly, Mister Waters. Being a Remnant," she continued, "I come from a time when self-reliance was diligently instilled in children during their formative years. At that time, this independent strength was considered a virtue by a society, and was deemed a highly regarded characteristic of mature, responsible adults. As was then customary, self-reliance was initially taught to me by my mother and father, who raised me to understand that conducting one's life with dignified autonomy was the only acceptable way to live." As she had anticipated, her words were not being at all well received. In spite of the waves of disapproving murmurs, though, the old woman pursued her speaking rhythm. She knew it was absolutely crucial - today of all days - to cover every bit of material she had come to present.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from IF NOT HONOUR by Marceau O'Neill Copyright © 2010 by Marceau O'Neill. Excerpted by permission.
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