The Religion of Death (Part 2)

When we have lost everything, including hope, life becomes a disgrace and death a duty.

Voltaire (1694 - 1778)

-------

Chapter Six

Habitat

"I need to talk to you."

Chandler recognised David’s voice immediately but took his time before glancing up to acknowledge his presence. "You’ll have to wait. I’m a busy man, Executioner. I have things to do."

David regarded him with his calm, cold gaze. "You’re the one who requested my presence. If you are not serious then I’ll leave right now."

"No," said Chandler with a sigh and he massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers. "You’re right, of course, but I do have duties to attend to, whether you’re here or not."

David’s eyes narrowed further. "I might be fooled into thinking you’re having second thoughts."

The governor ignored the disguised accusation. "At the moment tensions about the kitties are high and rising even higher, I’m the only one who is holding things together. Too many people would panic if they knew I was considering dying. At the very least, if I neglected my duties they’d know that something was wrong."

"Won’t they panic all the more if they are unprepared?"

"Perhaps. But I think it more likely that someone would be shocked into taking my place. In any event, for now it’s best that they don’t know and that we’re careful to keep it that way." Chandler sighed again and glanced at a time symbol hanging luminously nearby. "Look, I have somewhere I must be. If you come also I should be able to talk with you afterwards."

The Executioner nodded. "All right. Where are we going?"

"To a protest," said Chandler.

-------

A crowd of colonists had gathered outside the hall, the main meeting place of the governing council, the civilian body of the colony. It was not an overly large group that met them, perhaps only a couple of hundred, but their reasons for being here were disturbing nonetheless.

This was another kitty protest designed to attract attention and destabilise the faith placed in the non-interference policy. There had been many protests lately, coinciding with cases of self-inflicted mutilation made to look like kitty attacks, and while the support in numbers of people calling for the xenocide of the kitties was not yet an overwhelming threat, their message was getting through and creating doubt just the same.

As usual, it was Patrick who was organising them as he might a political army. The man’s slight hunch set him well apart from the rest. Patrick was the face of heresy here on Flint; his handsome features mixed in with the disfigurement of his glass eye implants reminded everyone that these were people dying and being viciously mauled, not just statistics, real living and breathing humans. It was hard to ignore the plea of someone you could easily recognise, and especially when the plea could as easily come from you… Patrick was average enough to be a father or a brother or an uncle or a husband or a lover, a reminder that the kitties could and did attack everyone and anyone. Meanwhile, his mouth spurted the words of a politician trying to win trust, attempting to persuade people to his cause, convincing them that his belief was just. In his way Patrick was Robert Chandler’s most dangerous opponent, a man hungry for revenge and power and prestige, but not necessarily in that order. He carri ed a bomb with him in spirit that was set to go off at any moment.