Lee
Killough
Lee
Killough's contribution to the Short Short Fiction issue
appeared in an anthology called
100 Great Science Fiction Short Short Stories,
edited by Isaac Asimov, Martin Greenberg, and Joseph
Olander.
I don't remember if I wrote it specifically for that
anthology or it appeared elsewhere, but it's had an
interesting life. For years I received small royalty
checks from that anthology and then three or so yeas ago
an Aussie indie film maker Joel Rembach contacted me,
saying he had seen the story many years before and
always been haunted by it. He wanted to make a short
film based on it. We negotiated, came to an agreement,
and he did make a film. Here's the link
http://vimeo.com/19117628. I thought
he did a nice interpretation of the story.
―
Lee Killough
A Cup of Hemlock
by
Lee Killough
Two days
after the Erasco shuttle crashed at the north pole of
Chandanna, the local police arrested the man
responsible. The trial was likewise speedy, the
judgement being that: “Cars Merrivale Bantling, having
caused the deaths of four hundred people by industrial
espionage, has proven himself contemptuous of life and
unfit to remain in society. He is to be confined for a
period of thirty days, during which time he shall give
up his life, be declared dead, and finally removed when
all vital signs have ceased.”
“Do you
really expect me to kill myself?” Bantling asked his
Chandannair lawyer.
“You
might donate yourself to the organ banks as many do.
Your parts would be of no use to us, but the gesture
would express your desire to expiate your offense.”
Bantling
frowned. “And if I refuse your cup of hemlock? Is it
forced down my throat?”
The
lawyer recoiled in shock. “Chandanna is a civilized
planet. No one will touch you with intent to harm.”
Aside
from the barred door and windows, the cell looked more
like a hotel suite. It had comfortable furniture, a good
library, and excellent food. The only disturbing note
was the altar-like table bearing a chalice of amber
liquid. Bantling decided to wait the Chandannans out. He
could do worse than live the rest of his life like this.
His
appeals were denied and as the thirtieth day approached,
Bantling became nervous. But the last day proceeded as
the previous ones had. No one sent gas through the vents
or poured the poison down his throat. Toward evening he
laughed in triumph and hurled the chalice across the
room, splashing the poison up the wall.
Then he
began wondering where his dinner was. Its usual time of
arrival had long passed. He tried to turn on the lights.
The room remained dark.
Fear
swept him. He rushed to the water taps...but though
pushed full on, they only dripped a few drops...and
stopped.
He ran to
the door and pounded on it. “Hey! I want to see my
lawyer!”
No one
came.
The
judge’s words echoed in Bantling’s head. “He is to be
confined...be declared dead, and finally removed when
all vital signs have ceased.”
Bantling
stared at the empty cup on the floor...and the drying
stain on the wall.
A whimper
rose in his throat.
The End
|