by Ian Scott Wilson
Chapter 1
“Do you have anything to say before we proceed?”
The condemned man nodded.
“Then you may,” spoke the President of the council. His old face had cracks in it, but none of them were from laughing. He eyed the condemned man with a special look of hatred. It was a hatred that had been carefully nourished since the condemned had entered the public eye. They all now hated the condemned.
Despite the torrent of emotions that were spat out from the crowd and the council, the condemned man tried his best to hold a somewhat reserved pose, but his anxiety shown through in his posture. His face, however, was strong and resilient.
“Let the record show that an hour has been allotted for the condemned,” the president of the council frowned at the man in the center of the circle. “You have as long as you need to make your argument even after an hour has elapsed.”
A pause. The crowd drank in the thick silence. The night was like welcome and soothed the backs of the angry spectators. A brief, cool wind strolled through the curia. The president of the council looked at the Potentate for approval. He nodded.
The president went on, “But during the overtime you must not leave more than a five second window of silence, as this signals the end of your plea. You may begin.”
“Thank you for your grace and mercy in this final decision. I know it might not have been so easy to find an impartial council, and I do appreciate their cooperation with the goings on during this affair. I understand, also, the need for expediency and I shall not keep you all here very much longer.”
One of the troopers that stood behind the Potentate shifted his weight from his right foot to his left.
The condemned man eyed him and went on.
“This is a fair society, is it not? We are given ample opportunity to work for our food and to pay off debts. We are given time to return to our beds and to wake at a reasonable hour. We may purchase more entertainment time, within the most understandable limits. We are generously given all of the pleasures of the flesh and mind, once they have been approved. We may even create!”
The crowd, prepared for a speech filled with lies, took the words in almost apprehensively.
“And is it not true that when the state of emergency was declared, that only those who were threats were exiled or executed? It must be very true, for here you all stand and sit in judgment of one such man. I am an evil person, am I not?”
The crowd booed. The president of the council threw his eyes nervously to the Potentate, who seemed distant.
“My crime is not a light one. It is not one that deserves a slap on the wrist from this man,” he pointed to the Potentate, who yawned. “I deserve nothing better than to be buried in an unmarked grave or used as fertilizer for the farms. It is true that attempted assassination of one so high as governor, a governor that right this moment is serving on mine own council, shall only be punished in the most extreme way.”
The crowd started to boo louder, louder, fiercer, and some yelled out for the condemned man’s blood. The trooper behind the Potentate tensed up. A few of the other troopers could be seen wavering, as if tired.
“I understand how you feel. I might feel the same. But what I have said has been a lie. This is most assuredly not a fair system by which to govern the people of Arcadia. Under whose authority must you submit to these men,” he pointed again, “and these women?”
He let several seconds go by, and although he was not under the five second limit he went right along, quickly.
“We may even create, I told you. Yes, we may create, but only the creations that are deemed suitable for public viewing. This act of creation then becomes destruction—destruction of the mind. A crime against Arcadia. We may purchase entertainment time, but why should that be a reward? We are human beings, are we not? We do not need to ask for pleasure; we need only take it. I am not advocating a violent society, but a fair one. Why should our lives be handed out to us? We may work, but only in the sector of the governors’ choosing. The Potentate allows nothing. We have been stuck in this place for too long. Nothing is innovated. Nothing is created, not really. We are stagnant, dying. I say, let us explore the possibilities. Let us be brought back to the glory days!”
The Potentate stirred, but only slightly. The president of the council was fuming, his fists clenched so tight that his knuckles had gone white. The crowd at this point seemed uncertain. A trooper on the floor with the condemned fell to the ground.
The condemned stopped for a moment as the president of the council interrupted.
“What is this? A governor’s guard… drunk? Have him arrested.”
The condemned spoke quickly, “Surely my time is not yet up?”
A scowl, “You may proceed.”
Another trooper hesitated for a moment and walked over to the downed man. He felt his breathe. After a moment of checking the man he looked up to the council.
“I think he’s dead,” said the trooper.
The condemned man’s eyes met fleetingly with those of the trooper who stood behind the Potentate. Another trooper fell down on the other side of the curia.
“What is this?” The president of the council repeated.
A third trooper fell, and then the one who checked the first collapsed as well.
“I declare this meeting over; take the condemned to be executed. We have matters to attend to.”
“But,” said the condemned, “my hour is not up.”
The president ignored this, and was scrambling to press a series of switches on the desk in front of him. He dug through papers.
“President,” said the condemned.
The president ignored him. Now the Potentate seemed more aware, but was still doing nothing.
“President,” the condemned repeated.
Still nothing. A fifth trooper fell. The crowd chattered away in a small panic.
“PRESIDENT!” The condemned shouted.
“Yes, what? Why aren’t you arresting him? Take him away.”
The condemned approached the President’s raised desk.
“Stop him, you idiots,” the president yelled. “Take him away.”
The condemned signaled the remaining troopers. They raised their side arms at the president and fired. He collapsed in a heap on his desk as he was still searching for his switch. The Potentate tried to stand, but the trooper behind him pushed him back down, took out his honor guard blade, and slit his throat. His head fell backwards and rippe unevenly. A quick burst of fire took care of the rest of the governors. The crowd screamed and the troopers fired into them. Spectacle was the first stage of revolution.
The condemned left the room with a small detachment of personal guards. The crowd screamed and fell onto each other as they tried to escape the curia, clawing like rats at their family and friends.
At the first convening of a new August Body the governors who were not present at the trial were ordered to show up. There were only eighty-eight of the entire one hundred and twelve left, and they all seemed afraid.
The condemned, now restored in name (Seth), who became the new Potentate of Arcadia sat silently at the same desk the President of the council once sat. He was writing on forms and documents, doing no real work but giving the appearance of indifference. New jade uniforms on the troopers proved that a new government was now in power.
The governors, dressed in their most elaborate robes, seated themselves and were silent.
The traces of blood had all been cleaned from the curia; it was pristine. The Potentate said nothing, allowing them to fester in their disquiet.
After a while, Magister Militum (M.M. or just General) Samael walked out from behind the Potentate and spoke.
“We have a traitor in the midst,” he said.
A door opened and a skinny, trembling man was thrown in. He was obviously broken, and very hungry.
“This is Governor Anson McDonald. He has a confession to make, so pay attention.”
Anson was crying and began, slowly and with many pauses to cough and cry, to read a prepared statement, “I hate the Potentate and all of Arcadia. My goal is the… my goal is the utter destruction of all of our freedoms… and liberties. To totally rid the land of what we stand for. I tried to kill the Potentate. This was foolish for he cannot die.”
He stopped and started to breathe heavily. A jade trooper prodded him with his pistol.
“I was foolish… I was not alone in this cabal. I have written a list of names that I have given to the Magister. We were hoping to crush Arcadia and leave room for a takeover from another government. We work for the Brazilian Confederation.”
He paused once more, and was prodded to continue.
“Please kill me. My crime is so horrible, please kill me.”
“Thank you, Governor McDonald,” said Samael. He signaled a jade trooper to remove him from the room.
Samael unfolded a piece of paper he had gotten out of his uniform. He cleared his throat and approached the governors.
“This is the list of McDonald’s accomplices. I am sure you all agree that we cannot have dissent within our newly formed government.”
A low mumbling.
“Governor Maximillian Glitz,” read Samael.
Two jade troopers marched up the stairs of the curia and grabbed an old man by the arms, ordering him onto the main floor of the gallery. They pushed him to his knees and moved back.
“Governor Mildred Okonko.”
The same two jade troopers went back and pulled Mildred from her seat.
“What’s this about?” She said.
They pushed her and she fell onto the ground. The rest of the governors were silent.
“Get up,” said a trooper. He pulled her to her feet and half-dragged her next to Governor Glitz. They pushed her to her knees.
The crowd was very unsettled now, but they did nothing to show defiance.
“Governor Michael Doyle.”
He was brought down as well, and pushed hard onto his knees. Seth made some motion to the Magister and Doyle was brought off of his knees and made to stand next to the Magister.
“Governor Stephen Hayes, come here.”
Without being dragged Stephen stood up and approached in a nervous gait. He stood in front of Samael, who looked him up and down.
“Take this,” he said, identifying the pistol that a jade trooper was holding out.
Governor Hayes hesitated.
“Take it,” said Samael.
Hayes took the weapon, but with a very loose grip.
“Kill these two,” said Samael.
The crowd let out a small gasp, but everyone quickly hushed themselves. Hayes looked at the pistol as if it were something he had never seen before. Behind them, Potentate Seth coughed and turned a page of the documents he was signing without a single glance to what was going on.
Hayes just looked blankly at his two colleagues on their knees. The jade trooper to the right of Samael raised his pistol and shot Hayes in the head. He grabbed Governor Michael Doyle, picked up the pistol Hayes had, and shoved it into Doyle’s hands.
Samael said “Kill these two.”
Doyle let a tear out, raised his pistol towards Mildred and looked into the curia—all the scared faces.
“Oh, god, no.” Someone in the curia said.
Doyle fired into Governor Mildred and then into Governor Glitz. Promptly he dropped the pistol and threw up. He moved from throwing up to being crouched on his hands and knees, coughing. Samael kneeled down beside him and spoke.
“It’s alright, you may return to your seat. You can wash up later because we’re going to go through some announcements in a bit.”
Doyle stood and slowly made his way back through the curia. Two jade troopers removed the three bodies from the center of the gallery to the side, leaving them in a pile. The room was suddenly not quite as pristine as before. A smell of vomit started to rampage its way through the seating.
Magister Samael looked again at his list.
“Governor Sarah Clyde.”
Many of the governors jumped up at this continual reading of names screaming, shouting, and pleading to Potentate Seth. “I love you,” “All heil Seth,” “I was always in support of you!” “Seth! Seth! Potentate Seth!” “Long live the Potentate,” “Long live Arcadia,” and others pissed themselves. Doyle sat there quietly, not even crying anymore.
Samael kept reading names until there were only forty governors left. Many of them had been forced, like Doyle, to execute their colleagues. Only three refused, and they were killed by the more willing. If a revolution is to live on, the spectacle must never die.
