Today was unlike any Sam had ever imagined. He had signed up for the PEF mostly because he was bored and to avoid being at the bottom of the heap. In a society which punched down, it was better to be part of the iron fist than to be on the receiving end. The Duma had reigned for 50 years, though their influence had originated earlier, or so rumor stated. His classes were strict about the 50 years. He once received detention when he asked a classmate a little too eagerly to tell him the story of the origins of the Duma. The legends were much more interesting, especially to a young child. Today would soon become legend as well. Today would be the end of their reign.
Akara was designed to be the perfection of their project, their life’s work encoded in silicon and artificial synapses. Despite their daily struggles, the Duma had not ended the troubles. Thus the Akara project. Evan, the lead Designer, had decided that the Duma couldn’t be around when Akara first launched. They had too much power, there could be no second thoughts. A coup would mean a return of the troubles and the pain. No, the transition from Duma to a transcendent rule would be binary and final. No loose ends, no transitory period, no looking back, a flip of a switch. A big switch had been made to commemorate the occasion. Sam had seen it being installed at the end of the runway as Evan looked fondly at it. Sam had seen the anticipation in Evan’s eyes. Today, however, those eyes were hollow.
Akara was the pet project of the Duma. It was to be their salvation. Their death sentence did not sit well. Yet there was nothing they could say. Despite 50 long years, the troubles persisted. The sparkling orators which had led them to victory now gleefully dragged them to the grave. Who could deny their failure? Who could oppose the end of the troubles. Sam didn’t want to imagine the ferocity of the debate. Cornered animals fought with tooth and claw, but cornered politicians fought with bile and venom. Of the doubtlessly horrid affair Horace Times’ eloquent speech had been the only published record. Shoved into a dark corner of the national paper it spoke of fairness and justice. This was the ritual justice, the cleansing fire which would fulfill this era. The fire of the speech seemed to condemn those who feared this fate. Righteous anger filled Horace’s words. Who knew? Maybe the records of the meeting would be published posthumously?
A day earlier the Duma had landed, their plane imposing on the windy strip. Certainly larger than any that Sam had seen in land in his tenture. They were heroes all of them – Sam would have been star-struck any other day, but somehow their luster had faded since those glimpses he had caught at those parades as a boy. Great men once full of life and possibility now shrunk by grim resolve and remorse hardly filling their own shadows. As that night had fallen they filed in from the cold and gathered in the hall. It had been specially decorated in their honor. It would be a dining hall for the Akara project, but that night it was a festival hall. Normally the Duma would never eat so opulently, at least in public, but Evan wanted to celebrate their lives. The wine flowed, the good stuff brought in from the east.
For a time, it seemed like they had forgotten themselves. Sam had watched through frosted windows. His heavy jacket buffeted by the passing crystals. At the time he couldn’t bring himself to approach them for fear he would fail in his task the next day. So he stood guard outside under the warm air of a vent. Their red cheeks matched his own. Their voices boisterously summoned songs of old. Songs that had filled the streets 50 years ago. Songs that had been practiced in the classrooms ever since.
As the men had struggled to the dorms, a balding man passed before him struggling against the cold wind on unsteady legs. The man stumbled and Sam went to prop him up. “Don’t touch him.” He received a shove from one of the younger Duma members. The young man puffed himself up to chide Sam. His small hands grasped Sam’s jacket. This encounter any other time could have ended with a life of scrubbing toilets. Yet defeat passed over the young dignitary’s face and he turned to catch up with his stumbling compatriots.
As Sam returned from his memories, he looked over the Duma kneeling. The wind gently ruffled an aging man’s hair. Hardly covering the shame of decay and paunch. His heavy breath was a crisp mist thick with fear. A line of Sam’s PEF men graced the airstrip. The Duma, after much deliberation, had chosen the traditional form of death. This ritual had gone back to the foundations of the republic. Sam caught the ruffle of a parka. His men tensed and three raised their rifles. The rifles tracked as a man dashed across the ditch. The flat plane of the airfield went on for miles. The man made for the haze of the pencil thin safety of the distant forest. By now five rifles were trained on him. At first Sam thought that his men couldn’t bring themselves to shoot. But then he caught their grins. Had some niggling feeling of revenge surfaced from under the forged shell of apathy? Perhaps the faces of a relative never heard from again haunted them? Did the raw cowardice of his haggard flight bring revulsion? At the very least he sensed they wanted this man to think he could escape, they wanted to him to feel hope before the end. It had gone on long enough. It was one thing play with your prey it was another to risk having to chase the man down. Sam barked, “Fire!” Five cracks. Sam was not disappointed with their marksmanship.
He hardly knew why, but as his men went out to retrieve the body of the young man, he chose to walk in front of the kneeling souls. He regarded these titans of men. Their parkas each adorned with their title, but more prominently the seal of the Duma graced every back. Many were nervous, but true to his word Horace looked determined and unphased staring out into the distance. Most failed to meet his eyes, some burned with anticipation, others regret but most just cold apathy. The fire with which they had celebrated their last supper was gone. Yet strangely this traditionally unceremonious event was becoming something of a rite. He looked out at the three men – rifles slung over their shoulders, walking patiently out onto the frosty field. The deference to the glory of the Duma bled into their end. No man was ready to let it end the wrong way. Even after the cowardly display, the men returned to solemn reverence for the men before them. In spite of the flowery poems, most death ‘rituals’ were quick, cold and spartan affairs. Yet even the ditch had this time been prepared with care, or as much care as one can put into a ditch. Flowers lay frozen along the crusty earthen edge. Sam stopped in front of Horace greeting him. “Mr. Times, your bravery and dedication brought us here. Do you have any words for your compatriots?”
Horace paused for a moment, “No words, Captain.” And he began to sing.
The rest of the Duma joined in. Their voices trained in rough harmony.
As the chorus died out Evan appeared shaking with the weight of the sight. Evan watched the three soldiers paint a red stroke across the airfield. Seeing a body dragged towards him had made this day real. He was a researcher; he had heard of the death ritual but never seen it. Its beauty had been described in poetry since the founding of the republic, but it was a terrible beauty. Evan felt the situation had a dark humor to it – here he was ready to unleash his life’s work, and he felt nothing but fear. He knew that he had done everything right and yet in the presence of the this sacred ritual, the rite of the Duma no less, he could only shake.
Evan leaned hard on his switch. It was an over-sized switch mounted securely to a pole dug deep into the ground. One could have fit two hands on the handle, not to mention the length of the metallic lever. From under its base a cable ran deep under the runway and into his lab, right into the heart of the Akara project. As he watched the three soldiers throw the fresh corpse into the ditch he searched for strength. His hand gripped the post. This connection to his lifeblood, his home for the last decade gave him the strength, if not to speak if only to act. He caught Sam’s attention and dramatically grabbed the switch. Sam moved to join the line of soldiers. Evan’s other hand swept out to the pencil thin trees on the horizon. A pause and then the lever came down and the somewhere deep in Evan’s lab a mind awoke. A horn blew from the distance. Sam did not hesitate, he swiftly pulled out his pistol and aimed it the back of Horace Times’ skull. Horace dusted the frost with red, swiftly followed by the staccato sound of gunfire.
The Duma let themselves be swallowed by the earth. The ditch filled with limp tangled limbs. Sam holstered his pistol and stood at attention. His men stiffened and began to sing. Whatever malice had befallen them had seemed wiped away. An era came to an end. Would the blood sacrifice pay the high price of our sins? Evan turned and walked back to the lab letting the martial chorus fade into the distance. His mind was already with his work.
[Click here for Part II]
Quite enjoyed it. Curious now to see what happens.