Placebo2009/2.2
From Place
NOTE: In short story form, as this is a project for creative writing class. For script form, see /Script
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THE LEGENDARY
1
Number 375 was doomed.
He knew it, of course. He tried to believe the fault was not his, of course; that he had done it out of a fit of lunacy, that there was no intent. He could pretend all he wanted, pretend that he was innocent, pretend that the steel apartment walls effectively isolated him from guilt, from the outside world, from comeuppance. But as much as he tried to delude himself, he knew otherwise. He knew the Regulators would also. The Regulators missed nothing. They fulfilled their purpose, as did the mechanical Omni-Eye situated in the center of the ceiling. Omni-Eyes, as their name implied, existed all around the Nation-State and worked in tandem to keep Citizens such as 375 under watch. Most Citizens paid the Eyes no mind; it was only when 375 began to harbor rebellious thoughts that the Eye became a chief adversary.
375's dark, agitated face was coated with sweat. He knew deep down inside, in that strange thing once known as a conscience, that the act he had committed was just. He felt no guilt for doing this; all he had left of him was the primal desire to survive. It existed in every component of his being, from the short dark hair (the same hair-cut required of all Citizens), to the lifeless gray shirt stamped with his number in boldface, to his unshod, beaten feet. At the moment, despite the fact that his heart harbored some good (he could not define good, except for the fact that it was different from the Regulated Order he lived in), he had no cause to concern himself with this "good".
He thought back to morning, at the weapons factory in which he worked. He recalled the exact moment of the action, the very time the treason occurred, the people who assisted him. He had no concrete reason for doing this; at the moment he was driven by a foolish morality. Right here and now, 17:25 in the evening, however, he would be prepared to betray these people.
Doom waited for no man.
2
Throughout all of Aaag there rang a bell.
It was 17:30. All across the Nation-State, every Citizen in his or her metal-gray apartment knew at once to be prepared. The Regulators were coming.
The Regulators were distinguished by their dark-green uniforms and the fact that their Numbers were written on their shirts in engraved silver instead of the usual black-on-gray worn by the rest of the Citizens. They had an air of mystery to them; no one knew exactly where they came from. All Number 375 knew was that no Regulators with him in Subdivision 23, one of hundreds - perhaps thousands - of Administrative Subdivisions uniformly created to effectively administer Aaag after it had become Regulated.
Regulators did not rule by fear; on the contrary, they inspired pride. The Citizens of SD23, 375 knew, would all be far too happy to report him to the visiting Regulator squad if any of them caught wind of what he had done. Every Citizen hoped to hear praise from a Regulator; they would rather die than be cursed by one. Each Citizen was evaluated by the Regulators and assigned a score. This score determined how much time per week the Citizen could spend on pleasures like Video-Games (now called VidGames) or TeleVision programs. Every aspect of private and public life depended on the Inspection score.
Horns blared. 375 glanced outside his window; they had chosen to cross into SD23 through Intranational Route 1447. 375's residence was situated on the intersection of 1447 and 931. He would be one of the first to be Inspected.
3
Number 375 huddled against his wall. The wall was cold, it was unfeeling, it offered no support or comfort. Yet at the moment the wall was all 375 had. The Regulators were roughly 3 miles from his apartment, with one other apartment building between him and them. He estimated it would take 20 minutes for them to Inspect the first building and move on to his. These 20 minutes were his life. He had no time for a decision or plan, so all he could do is wait it out.
He knew the identities of three other Conspirators he had had dealings with. These three were the ones who passed it on, passed on the Meme. Memes, he thought to himself, were simply ideas. But they were powerful ideas. Ideas so strong they were capable of anything. The weakest of these ideas, his fellow Conspirators had told him, were stronger than the strongest dragon. This Meme, however, could do nothing to save 375 from his fate.
Fear would betray him. An idea was, in theory, hidden from the world by the walls of the mind. In practice, however, this was not so. Ordinary Citizens like 375 knew nothing of the arts by which Regulators were able to silently and efficiently relieve their victims of their most private thoughts and feelings.
The means did not matter, thought 375. All that mattered was the end.
He thought back to the Meme. It was a legend, actually, a myth known to few. The legend was of a man called the Haiduc. Haiduc, which meant "outlaw" in some dead language, was his own man. He bowed to no authority. He helped those who needed help. He lived life his own way. Haiduc was independent; he followed his own code, not the code of a government.
The idea of a Haiduc ran contrary to everything Regulation stood for! What would happen if, for example, this Meme spread far and wide and Citizens began to believe that they had power, that they could make a difference, that they could be people, not cogs in a well-oiled machine? Haiducs would rise up and claim rights, powers for themselves, powers that had been claimed exclusively by the Order. There would be chaos! but the feeling in his heart told him that chaos would form humans back into humans.
375 believed this would happen eventually. He believed that the Meme would not die, that it and many other Memes he was unaware of would spread, gradually, like a wave of enlightenment. The Regulators could destroy anyone they wanted, but the idea would live on, and it would blossom. The idea outran the iron fist. That was what the Others had told him.
On the contrary, though, he knew he was no Haiduc. He could not claim a right to anything, not in his current state. Walled in, sought out, kept down, he could not be a Haiduc in this state.
4
17:45.
The Meme lingered on 375's mind. He wondered how such a subversive legend could even exist in this environment. He reasoned that the Others had a skill of deception that exceeded even the Regulators' skill of perception. He also wondered how these people were able to meet; the Order made doubly sure that Omni-Eyes guarded every public meeting place.
A knock on the door silenced all conjecture.
5
They always knocked. 375 did not know why; they had the means to enter any building in the State.
375 opened the door. In stepped two figures in standard Regulator green. One, obviously the leader, wore the number 100. She had dark, shoulder-length hair and green eyes. Her companion, numbered 241, trailed behind her in a subordinate fashion.
Numbers 100 and 375 exchanged glances. There was no room for deceit, no surprises at all. They each studied the other's expression, stance, and posture, and in the process revealed themself to the other. 100 characterized 375's appearance like that of a trapped rat, but there was something about that rat that intrigued her. This was truly an animal in the strictest sense of the word. If you caught a mouse eating food in your refrigerator, the mouse would obviously try to evade. However, the mouse does not feel guilty of theft. The mouse has no remorse for what it has done. The mouse just wants to evade its enemy. Number 375 was that mouse. He recognized the face of doom, but did not feel guilty of injustice.
Predators were not concerned with justice, anyway. They just wanted prey.
100 liked to make mental categories of the criminals she had encountered. There were the people who were truly sorry for their acts. There were also people who resisted until the very end, imagining themselves to be heroes. 375 fit into a third category: one who would try to save his life even at the expense of like-minded fellows, all in an appeal to an authority he reviled at its core! 100 found the very idea paradoxical, but it presented a challenge, which was something Regulators did not see very often in their opponents. 375 was a man who would break easily, but not break enough. This was not enough for 100. She wanted to totally break this man.
Her subordinate gestured to her. "Comrade 100, should we just kill the guy now? The last guy was a minor offender and we killed him."
100 shook her head disapprovingly. She would not be denied her challenge. "No... We're taking him to the Grid."
241, a very by-the-book man, was confused. A Level 2 offense such as the one committed by 375 - there was even a technical term: "Unorthodoxy" - was enough for the death penalty. He could not recall a single time in his life that Unorthodoxy did not merit the death penalty. He opened his mouth to speak but 100 silenced him with her raised hand.
6
And thus, an unorthdox man met his fate.
Ideas, however, are much harder to kill.
