The Trial of Bernadette Fabrique
Historians in their infinite hindsight love to imagine what it might’ve been like sitting in that courtroom. Nostalgia gives them the opportunity to speculate on the accusations and tearful testimony, discreetly trimming away less passionate portions. Yet that spring lost in a whirlwind of Parisian law deserves to be remembered fully. The entire life of Bernadette Fabrique — not just her trial — deserves to be remembered.
Mlle. Fabrique’s girlhood was spent comfortably, despite what conventional wisdom insists. Her governess wasn’t abusive, her walks through the city were always chaperoned, and her behavior during social events was impeccable. The fact that at sixteen she was kidnapped from her bed by a mutant beast gestated in an undersea laboratory which took her skin and assumed her life, mattered only to the former Bernadette Fabrique. Nobody noticed the difference, and destiny continued its dreamlike course.
When she came of age to be courted, innumerable suitors emerged. All were educated, and none were psychopaths or perverts, no matter what scandals the disreputable newspapers of the time concocted. Among the gentlemen who sought Mlle. Fabrique’s favor, Louis Gagnon came the closest when he invited her to a performance of Massenet’s Manon. It has been speculated that if their dalliance had lasted past intermission, they might one day have married; the fact remains that it didn’t. Perhaps M. Gagnon leaned in for a kiss. He may have said something salacious. What provoked the incident is lost, but none dispute that Mlle. Fabrique responded by shedding her human costume, rising to her full height with fangs bared, and chasing Louis Gagnon through the Opera-Comique until five battalions of police managed to restrain her just as she cornered him on the roof.
What followed became the decade’s greatest miscarriage of justice. Barely allowed to retrieve her skin, Mlle. Fabrique was paraded through the court as a fiend. Women fought to claim seats in the gallery merely for a chance to faint at the sight of the accused. In addition to the Opera-Comique’s extensive damage, charges were brought against Mlle. Fabrique for the injuries suffered by M. Gagnon, despite the fact that she didn’t actually catch him.
The name and record of this young woman would inevitably be ruined no matter what decision the jury returned. How could such a fair beauty return to her roseate life after being described as “A monstrosity without remorse, built by corrupted minds for the explicit purpose of destruction”? Prosecutors chose to dwell on the havoc of a lone incident, ignoring years of demure behavior that preceded it. For the crime of being an independent woman, and also an amphibious, eight-limbed creature, Bernadette Fabrique bore her torment with saintly patience.
And after dozens of witnesses, a prosecution hell-bent on character assassination, and the moving, if superficial testimony of M. Gagnon shortly before he lapsed into a presumably unrelated coma, it’s understandable that the jury was compelled to declare Mlle. Fabrique guilty on all counts. The defendant’s decision to pounce at the jury, sending a packed courtroom fleeing is equally understandable. Obviously, Mlle. Fabrique had no right to bear society’s scorn, nor should she have been held responsible for the carnage that followed the reading of her verdict. Who could blame someone facing execution for tearing the city apart building by building? If anything, it’s astounding that this young woman had the strength to rip through masonry that withstood centuries. Is it so unfair that Paris had to crumble in order to afford Mlle. Fabrique the chance to vent her frustration?
Bernadette Fabrique was a complex person, like countless others who grew up in an era with no tolerance for spirited souls. Her escape and subsequent rampage have yet to overshadow the example she left behind. Louis Gagnon never awoke from his coma, though he must have been remorseful for the part he played in her defamation. The Opera-Comique was rebuilt along with the rest of Paris, and the world moved on.
Strangely enough, Bernadette’s parents claimed that one morning, years after their daughter’s departure, a parcel was left at the front door. Carefully folded inside was Mlle. Fabrique’s skin, pristine and unblemished. The authorities denied ever bringing such a package to the Fabrique estate.
I was watching Ms Hologram’s left eyebrow. If that cut hadn’t been there, she would have looked flawless. I wondered if this was another strategy developed by the Ministry to make holograms even more human. If they were now including flaws in their design, were we to have uglier, older or crippled holograms soon?
I couldn’t see who was talking; my vision was blocked by a bulky headset. When I lifted the headset, I found myself in a completely different room. I looked around to remind myself of where I was; I was at the Simulation Lab. My consciousness had been switched with that of a defendant, so that I could see myself as the prosecutor. This was my second time taking the same test in the same simulator, but being in Doctor Ronin’s skin was a totally different experience. His vision helped me understand why I’d previously failed the test.
Department of the Exterior
There is no response to the distress beacon yet, and I am reasonably certain of isolated death. Humanity is unable or unwilling to contact me, and God is as silent as ever. I will begin to significantly decompose only weeks after my death, due to the low temperature and sealed environment. I anticipate continued indifference from the Lord. It is presumably too much to ask for a dust cloud to abruptly mince the station and myself.
Harold refuses to shut off the Q.E. transceiver, and the radio requires almost no power whatsoever, but all other communications equipment has been disarmed and even removed. Power is allocated to preserve essential lab function indefinitely, while maintaining my survival for as long as possible. This is my only option. It will be necessary for the continuance of the research for me to cope with my impending demise rationally. I will die in all likelihood between two and three weeks from now, and my corpse will remain here for some number of months, depending on the reason for my isolation. It is my goal to leave the research in a state in which Harold can continue to collect data after my death, and there is reason to believe that the exposure tests can be mostly completed, even without me. The small influence that the end of my life has on these samples may indeed represent a contribution to the ongoing improvement of humanity’s understanding of our physical reality. If I can reach through the vast emptiness of space far enough to brush the fingers of my fellow beings, then the remainder of my life can join my spirit closer to spirits of all life, and death can be my route to awe. All devotions made by a man, of anything he has, are most holy. Have we not expanded for all our breasts? Weighed down our backs? So verily, with every difficulty there is relief. Therefore, now I am free, I will labour hard, and to my task turn my attention. Mount me on your streamers and let me blow to nothingness with the rest.
The fire hardly glimmered. It cast only the faintest illumination now. The evening was late, very late, but Roland and Jethro would stay up into the deepest hours. Neither would be able to sleep if they both lay down, and neither would be able to stay awake if they took it in turns to watch, and so they both remained up: glazy eyed, half conscious, but ready. Around their small clearing, the impermeable forest held its shadows. Roland stretched out an arm, his gauntlet and mail tinkling slightly, and grabbed a handful of twigs. He cast them onto the fire, and it dimly flared in acknowledgement of the offering. Its warmth did not seem to reach him. He felt cold, colder than he had ever felt. This was the darkest place he had been in all his searching. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was the end of him, just as it had been the end of the Edgar.
His eyes stung painfully, but he was so used to the sensation he blinked it away. His aching limbs lay at odd angles as he was slouched by the fire, almost like the splayed contortion of a dead man. But his head was awake. It had to be. To dream was to allow it to come.
The door closed stealthily behind them, sealing out what little light there had been so that they were cast in an absolute blackness. Roland felt his leg trembling beneath him as he placed a first, tentative foot on the stair. He let out a long exhalation. For a moment, he could not summon the courage to ascend. He remained with one foot on the stair, daunted, staring up into impossible shadow above, like a starless sky only amplified.
But the sun was shining. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt like its warmth was actually touching his skin. He pulled off his pauldrons and greaves and helmet, and flung them onto the rubble of the tower along with his sword. He turned. Blank walls of forestry lay all around.
By society’s standards, the couple sitting across from me is perfect. Gracefully crossing her long legs, Mrs. Garner is a picture of generous curves and blond hair, her exactly symmetrical brow implants accentuating her sparkling purple eyes. Mr. Garner’s just as impressive, all muscle and jaw, subdermals accentuating his broad shoulders, his pants bulging where they should. The file on my desk says they’re richer than sin, he a big shot in sales and she a fashion consultant. In short, they’re everything most people want to be. They’re perfect.
“Supplementing genomes with donor DNA has been around for decades.” I pull a brightly colored diagram out of the file and point to a portion of Mrs. Garner’s DNA map. “This portion of your genome is from a donor of Scandinavian decent, probably to supplement your height.”
The pair who met us at the river crossing — one each, a brawny bronze-haired swordsman and his pale wisp of a wizard companion — seemed to expect a reputation of heroes from legend. When Gretya hid behind my skirts and Wimar began crying, the swordsman even looked a little hurt.
We went without a fire that evening, sitting close with blankets on our shoulders for warmth. Caris knelt beside me, Esma and Wimar falling asleep in our laps. She spoke quietly so as not to disturb them.
The wizard, Anweth, stood before me in a blaze of silver light. His voice echoed around the clearing. “Trimeya Kaduran, you must go. The Crimson Standard is following your path. We’re trying to hold them back, as long as possible—” His voice fell into a groan, pain and fear thick in the sound. His image folded over and vanished.
The Crimson Standard had a fire, larger than a cottage hearth, with their bloodstained banners wafting in the heated air above it. On a frame nearby, two prisoners were bound. Rathin’s wrists looked raw from struggling. Anweth hung still beside him, eyes covered by a woven leather band wrapped cruelly tight. The weaving chilled me to look at—a wizard’s blind, keeping his powers in check.
“If it’s noble to hate, I am noble,” I said. “Will you give me the wizard?”