THE EPIC GILGAMEK: CHAPTER 5 - INSIDE THE GAOL OF THE AUTARCH

Incarceration nation - An unbearable sentence. A fellow prisoner reads Gilgamek's future.

by the incredible Tim Fielder - check out his comic INFINITUM: AN AFROFUTURIST TALE

Begin the Epic Gilgamek here!

5

Gilgamek wakes up battered and goozing in the gaol with all the other dopes who didn’t run. Not the first time Gilgamek has been in the gaol. You don’t grow up in the Stacks without being bopped a few times. But local Bronze squeezing you for kickback is one thing — cold-faced Commissars and gooze-knuckled Enforcers —

— and a girl with flowers in her hair —

— is another order of heavy altogether.

The cells? Filthy and packed with meks and Birds. The prisoners? All naked except for the charge plate around their necks. All beaten ugly except for Gilgamek and a pencil-thin older mek. (Strange that Gilgamek is largely unscathed, strange indeed.) The cells completely silent. Why? Because anyone who utters so much as a groan receives a hard shock from the guards — a tongue biting body convulsing shock — and because the cells are so crowded that means the current inevitably passes from the punished to the unfortunates crowded up against them and if these poor saps cry out they get the volts, too, which can create a maelstrom of shrieking and shocking. Fortunately by time Gilgamek awakens everyone’s figured out what’s what and are keeping their mouths super-shut.

Gilgamek casts about for his fellow protestors, but recognizes no one. It’s a massive gaol and he’s unfortunate enough to find himself among strangers.

How is Gilgamek’s anger now?

Nowhere to be seen.

In its place: fear, deep and terrible.

A fear that causes him to shake and each time that happens he bites the flesh between his fingers to steady himself.

He keeps hearing Lonqo in his head. You have to look on the bright side. And he doesn’t know whether to laugh or bash his head against the wall.

Time passes. Some meks are moved to others floors (or to be interrogated) and finally Gilgamek has enough room to pace. Everyone else too beaten to do anything but sprawl or cower. No food, no water, and anyone who groans too loud receives a double dose of electricity.

Eventually the shift bell rings and the Enforcers lock the wing down for the night and stomp out. A gentle voice crackles over the loudspeaker.

“All citizens, have a pleasant night. As for the traitors, have no fear. We’ll be sorting you lot out in the morning and sorting you out lovely.”

“Eat a cog,” someone whispers and Gilgamek snorts.

Eat two.

When the gaol is empty of guards and the main lights are extinguished, the muttering and the whimpering and the moaning start up.

Gilgamek says nothing for a while and then turns to the older mek besides him, the one with the bandage wrapped around his head. “Did you see the girl? The one with the flowers?”

The old mek shakes his head distractedly. “She sounds like quite a sight. Let’s hope she didn’t end up here.”

The older mek seems to be listening for something and after a protracted silence he sticks his thin head through the bars, looking carefully in all directions. Satisfied, he pulls his head in and then extracts a long metal pin from inside his mouth. Shows the pin to Gilgamek like it is a magic trick and then starts worrying the charge plate around his neck.

“What are you doing?” Gilgamek asks.

The thin mek grins. “Peering into the future, my boy. Call me, Mister Oracle.”

He soon has the charge plate open and is flipping through the sheets within.

“You can read our punishments?” Gilgamek asks, touching his own charge plate.

“I certainly can, young friend, the penal code cannot maze me.”

Flipping to the last page the older mek breaks into a relieved grin and then carefully re-assembles the charge plate.

“Our Autarch, may he prevail for all eternity, tells us that mercy is the cornerstone of the law and he has give me the gift of his superb mercy. Only one stroke! The most minimal of sentences, though between us, young friend, I would have been fine as long my punishment wasn’t more than thirty strokes. I am one of those rare meks blessed with an unnaturally thick shell, but thirty would test even my limit. The Autarch prevails indeed!”

The talk of strokes makes Gilgamek want to vomit and he starts pulling at his charge tablet, but the old mek grabs his hands.

“Careful, young friend, careful!” he whispers. “If the authorities even suspect you’ve tampered with the tablet they’ll give you the full banquet. A hundred strokes and that’s before they bring in the dessert!”

Gilgamek grabs his own hands to keep them from shaking. Next to him a protestor whose head is half beaten-in groans for a long minute before falling silent again.

“Open mine,” Gilgamek demands.

“Of course! Please, allow me. I’m certain you’ll be released on your own recognizance, being so young and so wholesome a nature.”

The older mek repeats the dexterous removal and hands Gilgamek the sheets within. Gilgamek has long forgotten his letters and after staring at the plastic squares passes them back to the older mek. “Tell me what it says.”

“Tell you what it says what?”

Gilgamek stares at him, not comprehending.

“You have to say please.”

Gilgamek has to physically stop himself punching the old mek right in the mouth. “Tell me what it says please.”

The older mek smiles a deeply punchable smile. “Even in dark times we must always remember our manners. Otherwise chaos rules.”

As the older mek begins reading Gilgamek’s charges, his smile falls away.

“Boy, what in the Calculators’ names did you do?” he whispers hotly. “Did you knife a platoon of Enforcers? Did you curse the Autarch’s mother?”

“How many?”

“It says here that you are sentenced to twenty strokes!”

“Twenty strokes! But I didn’t do nothing! I’m innocent!”

Not entirely true, but one must make allowances for the young.

The old mek whistles quietly. “Twenty strokes is hard justice for an innocent young lad like you! Hard justice indeed. The Autarch must be informed of this miscarriage at once.”

Twenty strokes! Gilgamek could have bitten his whole hand off and it wouldn’t have stopped his shaking. Twenty strokes! Like all Rusties he’s watched enough public punishments to knows that even one stroke from the justices will leave a person folded, unable to walk under their own power. Ten strokes will break a person apart, have them speaking in tongues. But twenty strokes is like falling down a Trench shaft, twice — chances high you will end up Lonqo-level crippled.

“Do you have any paper?” the hauler asks sympathetically. “You should write your family some words. In case the worst happens.”

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Next: A desperate exchange - the most ferocious justice - the Body in Pain.