Liberty's Heirs

Chapter 28

The electric light in the hallway was dim with a dull reddish glow.  It shone in through the door, hitting the bench that Blion sat on, but leaving the rest of the cell in darkness.  Instead of being alone like before, this cell held other people, dark figures cowering in the dark, whispering quietly.  No doubt they were also accused of being Northern spies and awaiting their demise.

Blion and his guard had passed an interesting room on their way to the cell.  It was well lit enough to see that his staff and coat were new additions to a large pile of personal effects, no doubt confiscated from the doomed prisoners.  If he had that staff, it would have been possible to disarm the guard but he would not be able to get up the stairs and out the lobby given that several armed men lined the route.

His previous cell, probably representative of the whole complex, had brick walls.  He'd examined the workmanship.  It wasn't good, but escape by digging through the walls would take several months, even if he'd had a small tool.  The iron bars on the window and their settings looked even more unyielding as did the concrete floor whose thickness could not be ascertained.  There was no escape.

It seemed reasonably safe to assume that today, Sunday, would be the last day of his short life.  Not yet eighteen years old, it had always seemed there was so much more life ahead than behind.  That this assumption, typical and seemingly safe, would turn out to be a grand delusion, would have been a surprise to any seventeen year old.  What would Mac Spencer tell his adoptive parents?  It would be unthinkable to tell them that he died in training.  An accident was pretty farfetched too.  The old man would have to tell them that Blion had been assigned to another Community Center and would not be permitted to speak to them.  He'd have to make up some kind of nonsense rule to hide the fact.

What would Riojme think?  Would she even care?  What about Jiro and Shlemuel?  Surely they would miss him at the Kingball games even if they never found out what happened to him.  Shlemuel would think it was some kind of conspiracy by the Advocates.  And this time, for once, he'd be right, at least in some sense.

The guillotine seemed a terrible way to die.  Would it hurt much?  At least it was a big machine instead of a clumsy man with an axe who might require or three blows.  This way, his head would be detached by one swift stroke.  One might hope that loss of blood pressure would render him unconscious within two or three seconds.  Perhaps the shock to be nervous system would be so sudden and severe that the brain might not register it.  Even those few seconds might be painless, perhaps just a surprise.  Then again, perhaps it would be a whole two or three minutes of more pain than he could imagine.

He continued staring contemplatively down at the straw that laid on the concrete floor.  There would be no last meal.  It would be ridiculous to waste precious food on a condemned criminal when so many people out there went hungry.

Blion was angry at Mac Spencer.  How could Mac Spencer have sent a foolish boy to die on a pointless quest?  Didn't he have some sense of responsibility for the welfare of his charge?  Others deserved his anger as well.  Why was the President so evil?  Why did all these people go along with his foolishness?

"I'm Nikolai Skvirsky.  Welcome to Death Row."  A tall, bald man stood in front of him with his thick arms across his chest.  "Who are you?"

Blion realized that his eyes had adapted to the dim light.  "My name is Blion."