The Red Age of Reason

Enlightenment isn't always light. Sometimes it burns. A short story.

The friendly planet orbited the giant red sun, enlightened in both mind and space, blessed with pleasant weather, blessed with people intelligent and aware—mostly unencumbered by ignorance, always willing to see the truth, no matter what cherished illusion it destroyed. Soon, the red sun would hang low and vast as morning came over the Place of Execution, its rays not harsh, but enough to banish the night stars.

Already, the early mourners were there—professional weepers practicing their wails and moans. The Magister had decreed that the Heretic, hated though he may be, was not to die alone or unmourned. She had hired the mourners—and hired the best. She ruled a State that tempered its harsh justice with uncommon mercy.

As the sky brightened, others began to gather—witnesses from city and village, come to see confirmation that truth always wins over lies, and liars and their heresies, after being given a fair hearing in the cold light of reason, must be stamped out for the good of all, and for the good of Truth.

A tunesmith was there, playing a sorrowful tune on a stringed instrument—a song about a wife whose husband had given in to lust with another woman. She sought not to leave him, but to have him tried for the crime. The court sympathized, but told her that, though it may be a crime to her, no law had been broken. The people were enlightened now; they no longer killed sinners against sexual morality as in ages past. Rebuffed, the wife banished her husband from the house. He fled into the forest and was chased by wild animals, who cared not for morality, only flesh. “We trust unto our Law,” the singer sang in the final line, “and trust fate to catch where the Law fails.”

The song had been chosen for this event.

As the chill of night gave way to the morning warmth, the important people arrived and took their places in the stands surrounding the courtyard. At the center stood the lone gallows. The Prosecutor of the Law entered with his retinue, followed shortly by the Defender of the Accused. Their primary tasks were already complete. The Prosecutor would remain silent now. The Defender had one final duty: a last chance to plead for mercy. The condemned had a chance, up to the very end.

At last, the Magister appeared with her attendants and climbed to the highest seat. She neither smiled nor frowned. She was there to represent the State, which had its duty to perform in the cold light of Truth.

Heresy, because it was dangerous, must be put down. The Heretic, having failed to convince the court that he was right and they were wrong, having exhausted the forbearance of the wise and the learned, must now die.

The Magister raised her hands. The people quieted. She sat and said, “It is time. Bring in the Condemned.”

Guards led a man into the courtyard, hands bound behind him, a black hood over his head. He seemed to have no fight left. The guards walked him to the gallows—not with anger, but with solemn duty. This was no celebration. This was a sorrowful task. They treated him as kindly as they could.

There was no delay, no ritual. They led the Heretic up the steps, placed him beneath the rope, gently slipped the noose over his hooded head, and fastened it around his neck. Then they stepped back.

The Magister addressed him: “You have been tried and found guilty of heresy. The State reasoned with you, begged you to renounce your heresy. You refused. You were brought before the Court, where you heard all the evidence against you. Still, you would not recant. The State has no choice but to put you to death.”

She did not speak his name. Once found guilty, he had no name. It would never be uttered again. He was to be killed, buried, and forgotten—his heresy erased before it could spread, before it could have children, before it could grow into a race that could never be killed.

The Magister rose and gestured to the Prosecutor. “You have performed your duty,” she said. “Go now with the thanks of the State and the Magister who speaks in its name.”

The Prosecutor and his attendants left as silently as they had come.

The Magister turned to the Defender. “You have defended your client well. But the State has found against him.” She raised her right hand. “Yet we have been taught that mercy must always accompany justice. Though the Court has ruled, you may be heard once more.”

The Defender stepped forward. “The only mercy that remains,” she said, “is to allow the condemned a final sight of the sun, and to remove his gag that he may speak a last word. I ask that the State grant him one more chance to repent and acknowledge the Truth—and save himself from death.”

The Magister shook her head. “He may see the sun. We will remove his hood. But the gag must remain. We fear he will not repent, but speak his heresy again.”

The Defender bowed, her duty done, and began to leave.

“But,” the Magister said, “perhaps… hold. The State is as merciful as it is just. I will allow it.”

She raised her voice. “Heretic! Hear me! We will remove your hood and let you see the world you are about to leave. We will remove your gag. But if you speak your heresy again, I will not wait for final prayers. I will hang you where you stand. Do you understand?”

The Heretic nodded.

The Magister signaled the guards. They removed the hood, revealing a cruel gag: a metal brace pulling back the lips, fastened by a rod driven through one cheek and out the other. There was dried blood at the wounds.

One guard inserted a key, turned it, and the brace came free. Fresh blood spilled. But the Heretic looked relieved. The nearest guard could see his tongue through the hole in his cheek, working, preparing.

The prisoner moved his mouth. No sound came. He tried again—more blood, more pain.

He paused. He was nearly spent. There was nothing left to hold back. For a moment, he considered begging for mercy. The Magister was not known for cruelty. She preferred persuasion to compulsion. Perhaps, even now, she might grant clemency—if he renounced the heresy he had once believed, and then promoted. Even now, even at this extremity, even on the precipice.

Pain burst anew. Blood welled from his cheeks. He opened his mouth to recant—

But before the first word came, he stopped.

He could not.

The heresy had cost him too much. He had given his life to it. Lost his family, his friends. He could not be faithless to the very belief that had demanded everything from him. Not now. Not at the end.

So he spoke his heresy, blood sputtering from his broken mouth, as loudly as he could:

“THE EARTH IS FLAT! THE EARTH IS FLAT! THE EARTH IS FL—”

The Magister’s hand moved. The trapdoor fell.

The Heretic hung. His body jerked. His bladder gave way. A puddle formed beneath him. In moments, he was still—though death had come before the body quite realized it.

There were no cheers.

Only the sound of professional mourners.

And on every face, a look of sadness—for the utterance of heresy against such an obvious, such a holy Truth.