"Kit Reed - On The Penal Colony" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reed Kit)

And we saw. Incised around Quiven's naked waist by the constant jackhammering of
a million tiny needles was the warning: LOVE IS DEATH... FREEDOM IS SUICIDE...
FREEDOM IS SUICIDE... LOVE IS DEATH, words chasing each other around and around
dead Quiven's waist, a warning to us all etched in pain, and if the needles
penetrated Quiven's vitals, it's a testimony to physical strength and to tile
power of his love that he had his moment with Joanna before his heart faltered
and he died.

In case you're interested, Warden Bullfinch wasn't about to leave it at that.

He stood up on the catwalk while we filed past what was left of Quiven and he
made a speech. I'll spare you the details. It was worse than the anklets and the
belts, and the punchline? Instead of sending Joanna to Quincy for retrial,
Bullfinch Warden was conducting a witchcraft trial, a special event for the
Labor Day Weekend visitors to Old Arkham Village, us on time-and-a-half rations
since prisoners are never paid, and the state makes overtime provisions when
they need you around the clock. The trial was slated to take place in front of
high-ticket audiences at special evening showings so we could continue with
business as usual during the day.

"The lessons we teach here are for the ages. They are lessons for us all."

But what do you care? You loved the trial. It went live on CNN. Hard Copy came
in on it, along with Inside Edition, and Ted Koppel interviewed William F.
Buckley Junior on the witch hunts of the 1950s in a special Nightline telecast
direct from here.

Because you thought it was contrived just for your entertainment, you even loved
the auto da fe. It's a good thing Joanna was already catatonic; she didn't feel
a thing. At least we don't think she did, although Entertainment Tonight
reported agents from William Morris and CAA were trying to sign her up on the
basis of her performance, up to and including her dying screams.

And because you were excited and distracted by how real the flames looked and
how eloquently Joanna writhed, and because the screws were busy keeping you from
mobbing the stake, Gemma's body and mine touched in the crush: "Arch." "Gemma!"
We fused, bonded by instant love. And as reflected flames licked our faces and
we moaned in the heat, my friend Laramie Beckam, who knows every duct and pipe
in the bowels of our underground cellblock because he is a trusty, Laramie fell
in with us and we hatched the plan.

"The only effective facility is the maximum security facility. It has to look
civil from the outside, but it must shut off all possibilities of escape."
Now our plan is complete. We've assembled civilian wardrobes and kited them over
the electronic barrier. After I plant this note I give the signal. Laramie
starts the fire in the paint locker. By the time it's extinguished he's shorted
out the E-barrier and we're out of here. And if we don't make it; if they see us
escaping in spite of the fire and confusion; if they shoot us dead, no matter.
It's better than one more day in the smithy, with Gemma suffering behind the
Visitors' Center desk or giving her monologue on Colonial spinning in the