Everyone screams. At least, in the end. Not once in his 20-something years of manning the Perspective Machine had John seen anyone not scream. He didn't know if it was possible. He'd been keeping track, of course: 95 people have passed into that tiny grey coffin, suffered a tiny grey death, and come back out. Different. Changed. But they always screamed.
John was a Judge of the High Council. Not one of those barbarian judges he used to study about in law school, but a Judge. The robes and wig might be the same as the old English type, but that's where the comparisons ended. A Judge was educated in as many fields of knowledge possible: biology, mathematics, philosophy, art history...
This on top of the finest ethical and legal education known to man. John was one of only several hundred Judges the world over. Few could keep up with the demanding curriculum: fewer still could pass the Personality Test. That one effortlessly weeded out anyone who wanted the career for personal gain; no matter how deeply you hid it, the Personality Test would find it. It was easy, too: you went under for an hour. You woke up and got your results. Done. But by the it was finished, only those altruists in the most pure sense remained.
No, a Judge was a real Justice. She was judge 2.0. Humankind's perfect ethical decision-maker. Utterly incorruptible.
John permitted himself a tiny smile when he thought of that last one. He'd studied, as well as anyone else in his class, the disgusting mockery that was justice in the 'old days'. Before the Judges, when graft, deceit, and size of pocketbook determined justice. What would be truth.
A silent prayer for all Judges, thought John.
The Machine hadn't been used in awhile. In a world where law enforcement came closer and closer to stamping out crime every year, where humanity conquered social problems as an unstoppable tidal wave...it almost seemed unimportant. Useless. A museum piece, fit for grade-schoolers to holy-shit about.
"But that isn't the case, not at all," said John.
"Why not?" asked the reporter. He scribbled shorthand on his pad.
"Well, ever since the death penalty was rejected for the terrible human-rights abuse it truly was, we needed something else to inspire fear. Not something so...barbaric. Something elegant, something beautiful in its destruction. An artistic Punishment."
Scribble scribble. "So what does the Perspective Machine do?"
"It'd be too difficult to describe to a layperson. Even I really don't know. But essentially, it gives you a vision of the entire, sheer majesty of creation, the whole expanse of the universe. Of everything."
No scribbles. "Come on, John. Everyone knows that. The public's hungry for something a bit meatier. We've been friends for how long, now? Surely you Grand Old Lord-Most-Fucking-High Judge John hasn't forgotten the guy who streaked with him through The Field 20 years ago on a bet?"
John smiled.
"That was a long time ago."
"I know."
"But no, Steve, I'm sorry. Nothing else I could tell you would make sense unless you had doctorates in neurobiology, physics, and philosophy. And probably anthropology and literature, too. Your audience well knows everything they can possibly know about the Machine."
Steve looked a bit miffed, but smiled and extended his hand for a shake.
"It isn't often my readers see an exclusive interview with a Judge, so I might just excuse your shocking rudeness."
"And might I salve the pain of my shameful behavior by treating one of my oldest and dearest friends to a lunch at Clyde's?"
Steve smiled and followed John. Writer for the Times and Judge no longer existed. Old friends remained.
It wasn't that bad at the start. First there was a wonderful sense of rush for the convicts. Their every nerve, every natural sensory input device on their body, was wired into this thing. As John ran the necessary tests on brain synchronization he could hear the convicts shouting and squealing in delight. And when he pressed the 'commit' button, for the first minute the screaming was of pure, unadulterated joy.
The romantics took the longest to crack. These were the ones who believed in the grand, sweeping visions, the epic paintings and songs. The ones who could look at a sunset and cry tears of beauty. John knew them as well as they knew themselves by the time the Judging was over, and his records indicated it clearly: the romantics held the key to resisting the Machine. They lasted longer than anyone else.
Maybe five seconds more, tops.
John learned something watching these Judgments. He learned how to break a human mind. He learned the precise moment -- the very instant in time it took for a person to burn out on grandeur. When the visions kept getting larger and larger and larger and faster and faster and faster, suddenly the exhilaration was gone and the fear was raging and the victim was screaming but it wouldn't stop, wouldn't fucking stop , until they were quivering piles of nothing. Changed. Ooze that settled down in the coffin where a person was only ten minutes ago.
None of the convicts could care for themselves after the experience. They saw but didn't see, heard but didn't hear. They'd live out the rest of their lives as wards of the state, kept as a silent reminder in the public eye. This is what will become of you if you break our highest Law. You will see Truth and it will break you.
John had visited the residence of the Changed twice. The first time, he saw a room full of people sitting in chairs. Unmoving. Occasionally, a nurse would insert an IV or change a diaper. Quick, clean, efficient: like oiling a machine.
The second time, a Changed rose and walked over to John. He grasped at him with trembling fingers and, with incredible, trans-human effort, forced out the only words John had ever heard a Changed utter.
"What....am...me?"
John had no answer.
John sat still, admiring the Machine. So simple to look at, really. A box with airholes and some electrodes. Not a whole hell of a lot more. A few cushions, some restraints to prevent the convict from rubbing out layers of skin during the course of the Punishment. It was hard to think that such an insignificant metal box could cleave body from soul.
As John lowered himself in, he thought of how strangely comfortable the whole setup felt. Strong. Secure. When the lid of the metal coffin started lowering its hydraulics system, sealing him in, John wasn't sure who had pressed the button. Did he do it? Or had someone outside taken control of the system away from him? John felt a sharp burst of panic, but before he could move his finger to the master override on his Judge's Suit, he started giggling. Laughing. Whooping for joy. Fireflies and fairies danced throughout his head as he tasted sun, moon and rainbow. He floated on a cloud of whipped cream, jumped 23,481 feet in the air, exploded into waves of red, indigo, blue, yellow, swam at supersonic speed with a pod of glowing dolphins, and talked at length with angels. He screamed and squealed.
And then, before all thought was obliterated, he knew that his first minute was almost up.
Everyone screams.