The Historian

Genesis

A boy watches from behind a bush. Thick vines of Cercis cover the old husk of a tulip tree. Its rotten trunk sprouts a green, stalky stem. He observes an old man on a farm. The old man looks up into the sky. The air around him buzzes with a soft hum. The old man gazes up to see the two lights of the static drive interplanetary craft. It hovers smoothly and descends sixteen feet away from the old man. The doors open, and out steps a man covered in shawls, wrapped from head to toe. Intricate patterns mark the hems. The wrapped man smiles and walks briskly towards the old man. The boy watches curiously.

The boy had seen this before. Every two days, the old man would get visits like this, two or maybe three trips on rare occasions. Today, however, is different. This is the fourth craft that has come. After talking briefly, the wrapped man re-enters the vehicle. The engines buzz on, and they leave just as briskly as they came. The boy runs back to the yard. Around a hundred steps away lies a circular dome, with a relatively modest size of two thousand square feet.

The old man enters his wooden house. He sits facing the wall. "Screen, activate," he says in a soft voice. The wall shimmers. GEL is splashed on the wall in purple ink. A tiny trademark sigh pops up below it. The screen ripples to show a scenery as if on the veranda overlooking a pond. A pleasant voice chimes in. "Greetings, Historian, how may I assist?"

The old man sits, looking relaxed on the sofa. He lights a cigarette. "Record and save to file On Empire," he says in a contemplative tone.

The Empire was long ago, or at least that's what most people think. To the Historian who remembers the very day it was founded, June 17th, 2061. It was Friday. The day before was a time of jubilant celebrations. The governments of one hundred and forty-nine countries all over the world were usurped by a popular uprising. It was organized online by people in various groups on multiple platforms. They called it the No War Alliance (NWA). No politician took it seriously. It was just another viral trend, public discontent, the news called it. People were upset that the latest assembly of the United Nations had voted in favor of the budget to support the war for five more years. It was almost forty years since the war started. You could not believe what a difference a day makes if you weren't there to see it.

Friday was the aftermath. As parliament buildings stood empty, people discussed online what they were to do about the five countries that still had elected officials in office. All one hundred and forty-nine economies continued unhindered. People still went to work. Hospitals were in operation, schools were in session. Things were so normal that the five remaining nations thought what they witnessed on Thursday was potent propaganda. Friday, June 17th, was when The Empire was founded. There was no other precise date of the founding of an empire in human history as this. That day was the day mankind decided that an empire was the best way to organize civilization. End Recording.

The Historian takes another draw from the cigarette. He sits up and shakes the ash off in a tray on the armrest of the sofa. "Continue recording".

A ringtone sings out from the door of the wooden house. The old man stands up and heads towards the door. A man in a hat stands before him, a broad-rimmed hat with the word BOLT written in gold. "Delivery," the man in the hat says. A box is beside his right leg, reaching his hips. The hat man holds out a tablet. "Your fingerprint!" The Historian presses his index finger to the screen. The hat man turns and walks towards his truck. The Historian eyes the box. He lifts it. It's surprisingly heavy. He brings it inside and places it a few feet from the ledge hanging over the pond. Rather, what appears to be a pond. A shadow stretches from the bottom of the box towards the sofa. The Historian looks at the box contemplatively. "Clear noise and resume recording."

Initially dismissed by weary politicians as a fleeting trend, the NWA had taken root in the hearts and minds of millions. On June 16th, 2061, that discontent morphed into action. Across all 149 member states, citizens refused to go to work. Schools and hospitals remained operational thanks to skeleton staff, testaments to the dedication of those who chose service over protest. But the economic arteries of the war machine – the stock markets, the corporate giants, the arms manufacturers – ground to a halt. Panic surged through the highest echelons of power. Emergency meetings were held, frantic calls exchanged. But the silence from the usually bustling financial districts was deafening.