“You will face me,” said Ponter. “You will face justice.”
“Look,” said Ruskin, “I know you’re new to this world, but we have laws. You can’t just—”
“You are a multiple rapist.”
“What are you on?”
“I can prove it,” Ponter said, still moving closer.
Suddenly Ruskin spun around and arched his body, reaching through the pass-through. He turned back around, holding a heavy frying pan—Ponter had seen such things before when he was quarantined at Reuben Montego’s house. Ruskin held the pan up in front of him, gripping its handle with both hands. “Don’t come any closer,” he said.
Ponter continued his advance undeterred. When he was only a pace from Ruskin, Ruskin swung. Ponter brought up his left arm to shield his face. Air resistance must have slowed the pan enough that the shield didn’t kick in, and so Hak took much of the impact. Ponter’s right hand shot forward and seized Ruskin’s larynx.
“Drop that object,” said Ponter, “or I will crush your throat.”
Ruskin tried to speak, but Ponter constricted his fingers. The Gliksin managed to get one more good blow with the pan to Ponter’s shoulder—fortunately, not the one with the bullet wound. Ponter lifted Ruskin off the ground by the neck. “Drop that object!” Ponter growled.
Ruskin’s face had turned purple, and his eyes—his blue eyes—were bugging out. He finally dropped the pan, which hit the hardwood floor with a loud clang. Ponter spun Ruskin around and slammed him against the wall adjacent to the pass through. The wall material caved in somewhat under the impact, and a large crack appeared. “Did you see the media coverage of Ambassador Prat killing our attacker?”
Ruskin was still gasping for air.
“Did you?” demanded Ponter.
Finally, Ruskin nodded.
“Ambassador Prat is a 144. I am a 145; I am ten years younger than her. Although my wisdom does not yet equal what she possesses, my strength exceeds hers. If you provoke me further, I will cave in your skull.”
“What—” Ruskin’s voice sounded incredibly raw. “What do you want?”
“First,” said Ponter, “I want the truth. I want you to admit your crimes.”
“I know that thing on your arm is a recorder, for Christ’s sake.”
“Admit the crimes.”
“I never—”
“The Toronto Enforcers have samples of your DNA from Qaiser Remtulla’s rape.”
Ruskin choked out the words. “If they knew it was my DNA, they’d be here, not you.”
“If you persist in denial, I will kill you.”
Ruskin managed to shake his head slightly, despite Ponter’s crushing grip. “A coerced confession is no confession at all.”
Hak bleeped, but Ponter guessed the meaning of coerced. “All right, then convince me that you are innocent.”
“I don’t have to convince you of squat.”
“You were passed over for advancement, and for job security, because of your skin tone and gender,” said Ponter.
Ruskin said nothing.
“You hated the fact that others—that females—were being advanced ahead of you.”
Ruskin was struggling, trying to get away from Ponter, but Ponter had no trouble holding him.
“You wished to hurt them,” Ponter said. “To humiliate them.”
“Keep fishing, caveman.”
“You were denied that which you wanted, and so you took that which should only be given.”
“It wasn’t like that…”
“Tell me,” hissed Ponter, bending one of Ruskin’s arms backward. “Tell me what it was like.”
“I deserved tenure,” said Ruskin. “But they kept screwing me over. Those bitches kept screwing me over, and—”
“And what?”
“And so I showed them what a man could do.”
“You are a disgrace to manhood,” said Ponter. “How many did you rape? How many?”
“Just…”
“More than Mare and Qaiser?”
Silence.
Ponter pulled Ruskin away from the wall, then slammed him into it again. The crack grew longer. “Were there any others?”
“No. Just…”
He bent Ruskin’s arm farther. “Just who? Just who?” The beast yowled with pain. “Just who?” repeated Ponter.
Ruskin grunted, and then, through clenched teeth: “Just Vaughan. And that Paki bitch…”
“What?” said Ponter, baffled, as Hak bleeped. He twisted the arm again.
“Remtulla. I raped Remtulla.”
Ponter relaxed his grip somewhat. “It stops now, do you understand? You will never do this again. I will be watching. Others will be watching. Never again.”
Ruskin grunted inarticulately.
“Never again,” said Ponter. “Make that pledge.”
“Ne-ver…again,” said Ruskin, his teeth still clenched.
“And you will never speak of my visit here, to anyone. To do so would bring your society’s punishment for your crimes. Do you understand? Do you?”
Ruskin managed a nod.
“All right,” said Ponter, briefly loosening his grip. But then he slammed Ruskin against the wall again, this time a piece of its material falling free. “No, no, it is not all right,” Ponter continued, his own teeth clenched. “It is not enough. It is not justice.” He threw his weight against Ruskin once more, his groin slamming against the Gliksin’s backside. “You will find out what it is like to be a woman.”
Ruskin’s whole body tensed. “No, man. Christ, no—not that—”
“It is only justice,” said Ponter, reaching down into his medical belt, and pulling out a compressed-gas injector.
The device hissed against the side of Ruskin’s neck. “What the hell is that?” he shouted. “You can’t just…”
Ponter felt Ruskin collapse. He lowered him to the floor.
“Hak,” said Ponter. “Are you all right?”
“That was quite an impact earlier,” said the Companion, “but, yes, I am undamaged.”
“Sorry about that.” Ponter looked down at Ruskin, lying on his back in a heap on the floor. He grabbed the man’s legs, stretching them out.
Ponter then reached for Ruskin’s waist. It took some time, but finally he figured out how the belt worked. Once the belt was unbuckled, Ponter found the snap and the zipper that closed the pant. He undid them both.
“You should remove his footwear first,” said Hak.
Ponter nodded. “Right. I keep forgetting they are separate.” He worked his way down to Ruskin’s feet, and, after some experimentation, got the laces undone and the shoes removed. Ponter winced at the odor that came up from the feet. He moved back, walking on his knees, up to Ruskin’s waist, where he pulled down the Gliksin’s pant, removing it from the body. He then pulled down the underwear, shimmying it down the almost-hairless legs, and finally getting it over the feet.
At last, Ponter looked at Ruskin’s genitalia. “Something is wrong…” said Ponter. “He is disfigured somehow.” He moved his arm, to give Hak’s lens an unobstructed view.
“Astonishing,” said the Companion. “He has no preputial hood.”
“What?” said Ponter.
“No foreskin.”
“Are all Gliksin males like that, I wonder?” said Ponter.
“It would make them unique among primates,” replied Hak.
“Well,” said Ponter, “it doesn’t affect what I’m going to do…”
Cornelius Ruskin came to sometime the next day; he could tell it was morning by the light streaming in through his apartment’s windows. His head was pounding, his throat was aching, his elbow was aflame, his backside hurt, and it felt as though he’d been kicked in the nuts. He tried to raise his head from the floor, but a wave of nausea overcame him, so he let his head back down onto the hardwood. He tried again a moment later, and this time did manage to raise himself up on one elbow. His shirt and pants were on, and so were his socks and shoes. But the shoelaces were untied.
God damn it, Ruskin thought. God damn it. He’d heard the Neanderthals were gay. Christ, though, he hadn’t been ready for that. He rolled onto his side and placed a hand over the seat of his pants, praying that they wouldn’t be bloody. Vomit crawled up his aching throat, and he fought it back down with a swallow that was excruciating.