On The Execution Of A Heretic

A criminal gets his just desserts. This was a particular take on some events that were occuring in the news at the time I wrote it. Answers at the end, if you don't get the fairly obvious allusion while you read. 1,200 words Writing time : 1/2 day Finished : 4th January 2007 Download as Word file

“We’re better than this, honoured Arch-Deacon,” the surprisingly young techpriest muttered to me. “Usually.”

The condemned man seemed to hear this, although it was impossible to be sure under the customary leather sack. I was tempted to reach out and lift the edge, and look upon him once again, but what would that accomplish? There was nothing new for me to learn, no insight I could gain into the banality of his heresy or the totality of justice. I had seen him die so many times, now.

One of the techpriest’s mechadendrites slithered out from the hissing entrails of the Engine of Deliverance, tri-clawed end clacking in irritation. He stood up, the cloying scents of his calling rising with him. “Yes. That should be it.”

The triumphant look vanished from his face as the Engine began clacking loudly, like some wood-boring bird awakened from a fast, and the techpriest hurriedly closed the hatches with his serpentine extra limbs, muting the sound. “Nothing to worry about. I'll get one of my servitors to see to that later. Aquila non captat muscas, eh?” he whispered, laying a hand on my shoulder, a hand all the more conspiratorial for its icy coldness. “The eagle doesn’t catch flies.” With that he trundled away on silent bearings, and I resumed my seat at the front of the witness stand.

My old friend Confessor Ardic de Carabas was already in his appointed seat to my right, his titanium-bound copy of the Rubrics of Thor polished to a rainbow lustre by his slender hands and decades of devotion. It lay open in his lap. “I am surprised – although also delighted – to see you here, Confessor.”

He paused before replying and, as always, chose his words as slowly and deliberately as if writing a sermon. “One strives to attend with every passing year, Arch-Deacon, but affairs of the diocese spiritual and temporal needs must prevail. This is only the second time I have borne witness to this one’s final moments.” He closed the book. “You, I gather, have seen them all?”

“I was here for the first, and I fear I will not live to see the last. Odd, is it not, for an executed heretic to outlive his judge?”

“But he will not outlive the Emperor’s justice, be-it-eternal-and-merciless.”

“And-be-it-righteous-and-good.” I directed my attention forward, to the now silent machine that gripped the body of the heretic. “It is quite something, is it not, Confessor? I put it to you that the Cult Mechanicus, distant though they may be from the divine warmth of the Ecclesiarchy, have worked a singular and holy miracle with this Engine of Deliverance. A miracle! To put select parts of the condemned heretic’s brain in stasis at the very moment of execution, in order that a new body may be grown around them and the execution begun all over again ad infinitum is something I think the Emperor himself would have marvelled at. I sentenced this odious criminal to die a thousand deaths for his acts of sedition, and here we are after thirty years and two hundred and forty nine deaths. Ah. Good. Here come the Sisters, Confessor. Pray silence for the Degradation.”

The assembled witnesses looked on as the Sisters, draped in black to signify the sins they were about to repudiate and already worked up in a furious rage at the bound heretic, tore his clothing – and not insignificant quantities of skin – from him while screaming and laughing and spitting upon him. Many of the witnesses around me leapt to their feet and joined in the torrents of anger and righteous fury, venting their hatred on his miserable person, tearing at their own hair and revelling in the Sisters’ noble actions. His leather hood was ripped off and his scalp and face much abused. The electro-flails lashed in sizzling arcs, and the pain was so great the heretic managed to tear the thick sutures stitching his lips closed. This was not unexpected by the Sisters, and the swift extraction of his tongue ensured that no heresies could be voiced anew. The Degradation complete, the Sisters withdrew, discarded their stained black habits, donned fresh robes of silk as pious white as their souls and left the place of execution.

The other witnesses sat back down as the Engine began the process of Deliverance. It would take a few minutes to reach its inevitable, fatal and two hundred and fiftieth conclusion. I sat in silence and waited for it to be over once again.

When the skeletonised body fell headless to the rubber mat, I heard my old friend sigh. He opened the Rubrics, and seemed to be hunting for some page he could not lay his finger on.

“Does something trouble you, old friend?” I asked.

The pause this time was longer than usual. “Perhaps it is the failing of an old man, Arch-Deacon, perhaps it is that I have lived to see times to which I do not belong. I was old when we first executed this accursed wretch, but still I was eager to look upon his eyes at the moment when death found him, and expected to leave renewed and vigorous in the defence of the Emperor’s truth, but in truth I left with a heavy heart and an uncertain tread. I returned today, after thirty years, to try and undo that failing in me, but I find I have failed once again.”

“You think him undeserving of these torments?”

A pause. “His crimes were legion, but he was no more or less evil than many you and I have put to the flames. If I recall, he was once feted by some in the Imperium for doing to our enemies the things for which you so rightly condemned him – once he was found doing those very things to our friends. He was simply unlucky enough to be chosen by the Inquisition as an example, and to test the Mechanicus’ wonderous new Engine. As a heretic he warrants nothing more than a footnote, if that, not this lavish remembrance.”

“Aquila non captat muscas?” I asked.

A pause. “There are ways to swat a fly, Arch-Deacon, so that the eagle does not risk covering itself in its filth.”

“Then what it is? You take no joy in the death of this heretic?”

A pause. “I would that he were dead, Arch-Deacon, but nothing more. Let him die. Let the Emperor take his soul and let the Emperor mete out whatever justice remains or mercy dictates. This –”, he picked up his book and jabbed it with surprising force at the grisly remains and then swept it around to take in the abandoned black robes of the Sisters and the empty witness chairs,”– this is ghouls howling over a corpse. Nothing more.” He stood and shuffled along the row, turning only when he reached the door. “There must be dignity in justice, if it is not to be mistaken for barbarism, and we for barbarians. We are better than this, honoured Arch-Deacon.”

THE END

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The real-life execution that led to this story was, if you haven't already guessed, that of Saddam Hussein. This was written in the furore over the leaked video footage. You are welcome to add your comment on this story here or:- at Imperial Literature or here at Black Library Note you will need an account to post at these sites.