vance
The next day at work, Jonathan does not speak to me, nor does he attempt to communicate with me. I can hardly not blame him, though- his violent behaviour is of his fault, and not of mine. I may have aggravated him, but that does not mean I forgive him. As I have said before, I will never forgive him.
The discussion about the priorities of building the wall or the people's shelter has been pushed aside for the moment, replaced by the recent happenings of the death of a soldier. This is a normal thing; soldiers are expected to die and not to live, but this one was murdered. One might argue that soldiers are murdered by other soldiers during war, but this was not war. Well, not exactly.
This wasn't an army, to be more exact. The first step in trying to solve this problem, Malcolm announces, is to enforce the security levels of the city. That is to say, there are now patrols about the city. A hushed murmur arises in the council room.
"I have discussed this with Jonathan, and we are both in agreement that this will be the best, for the moment, in order to ensure that the people are protected. The society is still new to this way of life, we must eliminate fear in order to achieve perfection." The last word rings out in the circular room, like a clear echo, and all murmur aroused by the first sentence, the first declaration of her small speech, ceases. Perfection.
Is it even possible, they must have wondered. Is it possible to achieve perfection with such an imperfect race? Clearly, they thought it was possible, or else Tetrahmon would not have been possible. Not without the resilient and enthusiastic attitude of the scientists, the engineers, the mathematicians, the politicians, that helped achieve what the world is today.
That is what we are told, and that is what we believe, because there is no other truth to turn to. There is no more God to turn to; He has forsaken us all.
I sit in silence in my chair, not quite slouching, but not stiffly either. The news hardly surprises me. After all, it is I and Malcolm who know my father best in this room. It is becoming difficult to resist coming up with something to contradict Jonathan. Ever since he has hit me, I have felt an overbearing need to go against him, to look at him with some form of animosity. It is childish, I know, but it is something I cannot help. Thinking upon it makes me feel like a rowdy teenager. Despite the affairs going on around me, I smile, gazing down at the screen before me. It is empty save for a margin of it, and I have yet to type notes into it. Alas, nothing comes to mind as important. For the first time, I shift uneasily. I should have written something by now; an idea to help improve the situation, I should have said something, as several of the members are discreetly chattering between themselves, thinking of plans. Plans, plans, plans. They are what our society is built upon. That, and frozen corpses.
I drop the smile and hastily type something down, the laser keyboard responsive to my fingerprints. There is little petty discussion this session- it doesn't surprise me. Malcolm also informs us that there is an ongoing search for the person responsible for the murder of the soldier. She makes this sound dramatic, like a film, but nobody falls prey to the romanticism of the situation. We are programmed for Taylorism, nothing else. I rub my nape, the short black hair there prickling the skin of my fingers.
Adamík turns to me. "Is everything all right with you, Vance?" He asks.
"Yes. Thank you," I answer. "Have you gotten any ideas yet? I don't see how we're supposed to catch this- this thing, that is. Nobody seems to have a decent description of it."
"What about the other soldier? The one that was with him? He might remember something." Adamík raises his head as he speaks, throwing his voice over the table. It's surprising; he's rarely this loud, but everyone must have their moments, I suppose, to be trusted to a place on the council.
Malcolm smiles, but it's not a smile that is genuine, more of a mocking one. "He is in recovery from the shock, but tells us that he has no recollection whatsoever of what- or who- shot his partner," she explains calmly.
I know a lie when I see one, and this is most definitely a lie. None of us save Malcolm and Jonathan have any access to military information, records, or detainment and imprisonment services and files, but I can tell this is a lie. In a world programmed such as this one, they must have certainly found something out by now. Or, they'd be questioning him; with what methods, I would rather not think of.
What bothers me most, however, is why she is lying to us. Perhaps we are not all as trustworthy as we make ourselves out to be? But no- impossible. None of us are amateurs- the government of Tetrahmon would never allow less than the best of the best to run this country. Or, rather, this city. If we are to aim for perfection, we must start with the people of most perfection. That is not to say perfection of appearance. Vanity and mirrors are not highly regarded elements of this world.
I have only caught reflections of myself in glass doors, in windows, in the ice. I have a mirror at home, however, which is only used to check acceptability of my face and my clothing on extremely important occasions. Each of us has one, but the amount of time we are permitted to look at it is minimised.
I do not think I am an incredibly attractive man. I have permitted myself to like the colour of my eyes, since they are an exceptionally nice shade of light blue- but then again, eye colour is a mundane thing. That is all I have permitted myself to like about my appearance. I do not dislike anything about it, however; I am indifferent to the rest of my features, to the rest of my body. The idea of beauty has been wiped off the face of this world, as one would wipe a spot of grime from a window with a wet towel. It was that easy.
Still befuddled, I turn back to Adamík and give him a little shrug. "Seems like we've hardly got a lead," I murmur. If only there was a way to access Parrish's memories- but there isn't, and there is no use in wasting time and thought to something that technology has not made possible yet. Surely he must have seen his attacker's face...
I suppress a sigh and allow myself a small, reassuring smile towards Adamík, who in return, seems to agree with me. I am glad for his presence here.
"Vance." I look up. Malcolm has addressed me- the remainder of the council members stop their educational and intelligent talk, and look at me.
"Yes?" I ask, politely, my face straight now. All members save for myself and Malcolm rise to their feet, take the chip containing their screens with them, including their briefcases, and depart.
"Stay behind, please," she starts, as I switch my screen off and make to put the chip into the breast-pocket of my dress shirt. "I wish to speak with you."
I remain seated and nod, whilst she regards me for a moment, with her cold gaze. I used to think hazel eyes could never behold an icy look; I was wrong. "Very well."
"You knew Parrish, did you not?"
I do not hesitate in my answer. "Briefly." I know to keep my answers short, polite, and well-phrased. She is testing me, and I feel ridiculed and slightly irritable. My pride has taken a sort of blow.
"Were you friends with him?"
"No. I would label him as an acquaintance. He was kind, as a stranger is kind, but he was not a friend."
She falls silent for a moment, but I don't try to add anything on in a hurried attempt at shaping up my previous words to make them sound better. "You seem to have gotten over his death quickly, then, if you knew him."
Here is the test, I think, and I shrug. My eyes are unblinking as I stare right back at her, my entire composure relaxed, calm, unaffected- stoic, in a sense. "He was a soldier. It was expected. It was his duty to protect and to serve. Naturally, it is unfortunate that he had to die, but, as I have just said, he was a soldier- I do not believe that there was anything else to be expected of him."
She doesn't respond directly. Instead, she is silent again, but after some careful assessment of my words and of my facial expression, she gives a curt nod, her short, white-blond hair falling across her shoulder as she does so. "You may go."
I take my things and leave, my briefcase slapping me in the thigh as I walk down the corridors, feeling sick, inhuman, my hands shaking, my composure gradually
slipping
out of
my
control.
My hands can't stop shaking.