I rise. The birds of time—heralds of the morning, chorus defining. For all the world knows. My name resisting, duty calling, powers altering.
I am R’aegoth.
Third Agent, First Bureau of Purification, the Agency, Sector I. Today is a day to renew all names, in the world where the children choose.
I stand. My clothes of white remain. I leave the house of rest and face my desk. My room has but two pieces which furnish it: the bed I left, and the desk which is bare. It is of High make, and deep within it lie three objects.
I turn away and proceed to calisthenics. My morning only begins once my mind and body are united in routine. I first descend, my body, to the floor of my domain: the archimedean enactment of a push-up. I second ascend, my mind, into the proletarian recitation of a poem.
“And the sky, oh glory,
firmament of higher glory,
esteemed azure, high above
pillars of rosan. To seek,
my cruel world below—”
“R’aegoth, pizza time!”
It is indeed my cruel world below. “Pizza” is an archaic term, referring to a staple of common eating from more than a century ago, although I believe it may be consumed in the Lowers. Why, because it is Hector. He brings the time.
I turn my head and see the Fourth Agent, my subordinate to our esteemed calling, and the origin of my incomplete poetry.
“The day begins with exercise, Hector.” As I squat, I notice the Fourth Agent still standing there; he is leaning against the doorframe, hitting it softly as he comes off, before settling back, back and forth. He is a tall Agent. Not as tall as I, but still far too eager for combat when the need for it diminishes.
“No, it begins when you wake up.” A simple truth, a platitude, and for Hector to give me platitude on a morning of readiness only gives me information.
My day is soon begun, four hundred repetitions completed. I see that Hector is showing the beads of sweat already on his forehead, as he has been knocking lightly on the door. I, of course, show no such thing. I am R'aegoth.
“Hector, it is time. We shall break the fast.”
Hector comes off the door. Or rather, he slips down it, his legs giving way. He gets back up. “Ain’t nobody got time for that,” he responds. “Sleeping isn't fast, and besides, religion is dead. Sleeping is slow.”
I no longer respond, and I stand to meet him. The door, it seems, has suffered no idle consequence from bearing him. I leave my container of sleep, and the Fourth Agent follows in suit.
The hallway before us goes on, its long way to the center of the Agency. I see along it, walking ahead some Agents; those who choose to break their fast also, or seek the Alter Stone, or read the Sector’s history in the Library. The Agency is wide and true; all room for the world. The night’s domains of my fellow Agents, predominantly lower ranked regardless of Bureau, spot the walls of the hallway as we walk past. Some Agents nod as they come out of their doors, and while none salute, bow, or kneel I acknowledge them. None make any motions towards Hector, besides opening their mouths to say such things as ‘Alter morning, Hector,’ or, ‘Hi Hector!’
Who had been silent, but as we near the end of the hallway, Hector begins speaking about his newfound plans for becoming First Agent. I feign comprehension, although I am walking ahead, so my reaction is moot.
We now depart the branch, and the slowly turning hallway that forms the circumference of the Agency entire greets us. I continue walking, and as we pass by further Agents Hector’s planning abates, and he returns the morning platitudes. We soon pass by the entrance to the Library, through which several more Agents can be seen, walking amongst the shelves or sitting on chairs. I am not going there today. We soon pass by the first exit to the campus grounds, whose aperture reveals in the distance the Menagerie. I am not going there today.
We now come upon the entrance to the Agency’s communal dining area. A good number of Agents populate its tables and floating couches, and I immediately espy the First Agent of our Bureau, Xeric. He is pacing along the far wall, moving his hand along it, and creating a berth. For the other Agents, all lower ranked, are avoiding his steps. Unlike the Fourth Agent, the First is one who meets my respect. Hector currently is––
––tapping my shoulder, and throws his arm towards a particular group of chairs. Upon them sit two Agents, who are yet far enough away in the grand space that I cannot make them out. “R’aegoth, let’s sit over there. Change my mind.”
I look his way, and we approach. I soon make out the First and Fourth Agents of the Second Bureau, Tay and Kay. But of course. The last time I was pulled to the First Agent Tay and the Fourth Agent Kay of the Second Bureau for breaking my fast, due to Hector’s comeuppance, was yesterday.
As our Agency heralds the true equality, that without descendants, a beacon of hope for those in the world below, it is only hallmark that the Agents themselves break merry together. Our world has only paraded such social disparity. But I can only wonder, and continue in the stead of my founders and locate the descendants to––
––Hector, for the second time, is tapping my shoulder.
“R’aegoth, they’re looking at us!” He strikes his face with his palm.
I turn to look. The Agent Tay is of shining yellow hair, with a chest robust in musculature; strong hips, eyes of a dark color, and the Agency uniform that conceals none of his assets––of course, each Agent bears the uniform of their Bureau. But the Agent Tay’s is merely a uniform of the standard make, with the letters T A Y spelt across his breast.
Hector is not one for men; but Tay exceeds expectations.
The Agent Kay is of clear magenta hair, with a chest replete in curvature; stable hips, eyes of a smooth color, and the Agency uniform that conceals none of her assets––of course, each Agent bears the uniform of their Bureau. But the Agent Kay’s is merely a uniform of the standard mark, with the letters K A Y lined across her breast.
Hector is one for women; and Kay exceeds his expectations.
“BMPs built differently,” Hector says in response, and Tay throws back his head and laughs. Kay’s mouth twitches. Hector of course is referring to the bodily enhancements equipped by every Agent, short of I, for I am R'aegoth. The Agents Tay and Kay simply have the best in the Agency, a fact to which Hector wakes up each day to prance in delight. For unlike them, he must walk the outside world, and meet at battle––if battle there must be––the descendants.
Hector is, indeed, shaking with delight. A fool like only Hector.
I approach Agent Tay, and nod. “First Agent Tay.”
“Third Agent R’aegoth,” he replies. Agent Kay stands, and nods her own. “Third Agent,” she says. She sits, and Agent Tay stands and walks over to Fourth Agent Hector. He pats his head. “Good morning, Hector,” and Tay walks back to sit. His movements show the efficiency that Hector lacks on the battlefield; why, if Hector had, he would still be Fourth Agent.
Hector begins to stand from where he had been sitting, but Agent Kay raises a hand. “Please sit, Hector. Join us for breakfast.”
He does, and then I join them. Per etiquette of the Agency, the Bureaus commune. In their own ways they commune. Our Third Bureau is that of Communication, after all.
“So how is your morning, R’aegoth,” Tay asks. If he were of our Bureau, he could fight on appearance alone. He drinks from his container. “It isn’t R’aegoth if he’s not sitting with Hector.” He sips.
“I like turtles,” says Hector.
“Turtles are extinct,” Kay replies. She takes a bite from her sandwich. “Their hard shells couldn’t protect them, could they?” She smiles. If she were of the First Bureau, she could fight on appearance alone.
“My morning has just begun,” I say in response.
“Which part hectored?” Tay asks.
“Poems,” I say.
“I see. Well done Hector!” Tay tells Hector. Hector grins broadly, stretching his face.
“I also like trains,” he says.
“What’s on your mind, R’aegoth?” Kay asks.
“I am R’aegoth––for I am grave, gentle, and glorious.”
“You are,” Tay responds.
“I have received my next assignment. It concerns the Furies.”
“Justice for Harambe,” comes again Hector.
“Is that an Agent? I don’t see them,” Tay responds, looking around the vast interior. I do not look––but I know already there is no Agent called such at this time.
“Where, and how many, or rather, which Furies?” Kay asks, looking interested, and Hector perks. “Doge––”
“That is yet unknown,” I say. “But it does not matter.”
They nod together. “At least they’ll be somewhat entertaining for you,” Kay notes.
Hector nods aggressively.
I shake my head. “Mere exercise,” I say.
Hector shakes his head with fervor. “They are the Furies,” he says excitedly. “Most Scions we chase are just exercise. Furies are out of this world.”
I suppose he is somewhat correct. If our world had been made differently, descendants would run amok. But, gladly, their sheer majority percolates little, for being born with traits means little. Unless they are wrought to greater heights.
“The Furies have a leader or something, right?” Tay queries, and Hector begins to nod again. Kay raises a hand, however, bringing an end to the mechanisms of Hector’s paltry cortex.
“A leader is just one person,” she says.
Tay nods, and I agree. Leading is superior to following. But only one can truly lead the world.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
“Furies are awesome,” Hector says again.
And this time, I shake my head.
“Let us go, Hector––to the briefing.”
“They’re safely endangered now, R’aegoth!” he says. “Doctor Kirby!”
I perturb a smile to his non sequiturs, dated from an earlier time when image became the reduction of language. We rise and leave; bid farewells to the two Agents superior to the Fourth Agent of the First Bureau.
2082
* Economic Crisis of 2080 - pressure from C + R → US exports’ tariff rise
* President Hall declares New Commonwealth (N.C.) after 30 years’ overture, UN opp.
* C + R = ‘Economic Alliance’, comb. stock markets → pressure US $ / stock drop (+EUR economy fell; Great World Recession of 2081)
* Nuclear Arms Ag. of 2064 fails + accusations to E.A. for sabotaging N.C. Dept. Def. à nuclear arms rose > Cold War arms race. P. Hall overturns Senate, declares war upon E.C. / N.C. brokers ‘Peace Union’ w. Germany + U.K.
* WWIII: 2083-2090
2084
* Æthelstan Restor founds the Agency N.C. branch (precursor to Sector I) under CIA
Skylark fell back onto the bed—holding the V-book up in front of her, raised towards the ceiling. History of the World had to be the most boring course ever created in the history of William Restor High. For Mr. Abur to expect her to pass this exam. Incredible. The Thought-feed for the V-book’s scrolling text, still on 2083, was so easily closed.
Incoming Thought-message: Falara.
Skylark held the V-book up higher: Modern History: 1992 to 2236. Written by the government of course. Not that that mattered. Skylark, you there? Are you studying? The one class that she had the most difficulty in—besides Tech and Neo English. But—well, she had difficulty in every class, didn’t she? She laughed. She struggled in every class!
Skylark! the Thought came, loud into her Thought-feed.
She leaped out of bed—fumbled with the V-book—landed on the floor without stumbling over herself. The V-book fell to the floor. Accept. Falara, sorry – was—she paused and picked up the V-book. Was she always this slow to respond to TMs?
Up in the clouds again.
I was studying for mod h.
You? Studying? I find that hard to believe. You have a higher possibility of flying.
Flying. She looked at the V-book.
I feel like anything you study goes into your receptor one way. Goes out the other. I think you’d save time by not studying. Skylark could hear the laughter in her friend’s voice.
She could try. She could keep studying, or just keep letting the V-book scroll through her Thought-feed, year by year… 2083, 2084, 2085… until it eventually got to the current year. 2236. A long way to go—
Or she could try lifting her V-book again.
Skylark moved back to her bed, fell back into it. Stared at the ceiling once more. Held the V-book up to the light. Imagined… If you ever don’t want to study, we can go to the upcoming Exhibition. It’s on Sunday. The V-book, leaving her hands, holopages shimmering like wings. Today was Friday? She had two days to “study” before the exam on Monday.
I’m free Sunday. The V-book’s cover shimmered—about to flip to the first holopage. She thought harder. 1. See the object still – 2. See the object move up – 3. Move it higher. The cover shimmered. Fluttered—and cast a glint of blue from the title. Skylark, I got us access. You just have to go with me. She concentrated harder––
And opened her eyes.
The V-book was—hovering—it was hovering! A full half-meter—a full half-meter above her hands! I did it!
No, I did, haha, you know I’m good at getting V-access quick.
Oh—she had Thought into the feed on accident. Was just finishing the 2080s.
The V-book fell back onto her upraised palms without tumbling over.
I’m excited too. I think I’m jumping in my mind over here! Real techists, real techistry. Not what we see in school. Can you believe it?
Skylark replayed those brief few moments in her Thought-feed. Hovering, just a bit… she couldn’t stop smiling. I can believe it.
The light of the sun came through the sky, which didn’t have clouds; but Tr’aedis could see it, unimpeded in its descent, coming down to illuminate the portal’s walls of alter glass. Neither the birds’ haphazard chorus, nor the cyber trees’ rustling of leaves, could interrupt that sound. Tr’aedis thought he could see gold—but when he peered closer, he had to turn his eyes away, and the sunspots behind his eyes flashed with flickers of blue.
He looked back at the portal, which was still empty—but then, he saw its inner space shimmer, and the air in that space wavered like those ancient Gothic stained windows. What was before empty space became his friend, Eleanor.
She’d probably chosen the portal over the short path between his house of minarets and her house of towers. In their ancient game of nine years, on their sporadic meetings at one house or the other, in the garden she liked or in one of his twenty floors. She probably expected him to meet her on the way, and not simply wait for her to come.
Too late, Lady Eleanor, he thought, stretching and walking out his front gate.
----------------------------------------
Eleanor stood briefly outside the portal, letting her eyes remain closed. She knew the sky hadn’t changed in the instant she had taken between the Dorr and von Hiischklen portals, but the autumn emptiness calmed her. Time to surprise Tr’aedis, she thought, opening her eyes.
To see him walking towards her out of his front gate. The engineering heir was smirking, in the forced way Tr’aedis had, which meant he was acting as usual. His clothes, also as usual, were his everyday von Hiischklen, the typical shirt and pants but laced with alter steel around the edges. He wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short either; always had that rather unkempt, far too blonde hair that crept over his ears and she never knew—and never asked, because honestly, she didn’t care—whether it was all intentional with the rest of his speech, or failed body-maintenance prescriptions.
In other words he was wealthy, just like everyone else in Plent. They were both heirs, and inherited plenty.
She now saw that he noticed her, and she saw him grinning—was it before or after her fake show of surprise for winning in their boring game of 9 years?
“I didn’t succumb to the sun this time,” he said, beckoning with his arm behind him—to the house behind him. “I’ve got something great and fine to show you.” Eleanor sighed. She watched him stand just for a moment before the front gate, entering the Housecode via receptor, and watched the gates open wide.
They crossed the lawn together. It took them a minute. It was just as beautiful as it was the day she first saw it—its Pegasus fountain eternally eschewing hologram water out of its stony mouth. But Tr’aedis saw it even more than she did. He probably quipped Shakespeare to it before heading out to Blazon. Ancient myth, a writer who was still performed in V-theater, and hologram water. Eleanor watched Tr’aedis pause once more to now access the code through the front doors.
They opened. Eleanor stepped through; followed by Tr’aedis. “Prepared they are—the walls”—he said—and Eleanor nodded, it wasn’t her first time standing within the von Hiischklens’ chosen veneer, nor was it her first time standing in their empty atrium, save for an obsolete self-scanner laid in the center. And the long stretch of hallway laid out before their eyes.
Tr’aedis walked into it. Eleanor knew that he knew the way—only because he had come to this district of the levgion early enough to get well acquainted with his manse’s twenty floors. His parents were rarely even in the house, including today—and she could spare not talking to either of them for an hour on their latest engineering products.
Now she was passing by the von Hiischklen family portraits. As before, as old as Tr’aedis’ family was, they began with still photos of parent or parents, with child or children; and continued until they became V-photos, giving pretend smiles and even embracing one another in some, until the most recent one, showing Tr’aedis’s parents standing rather silently behind Tr’aedis himself, from nine years ago when they’d come into Plent and become her neighbors.
But she knew that, besides these moving family V-photos, they were not alone. Tr’aedis always made sure to bring out his servant, John, for these occasions; and each time, playing a different role, although Eleanor knew that John was trained to be Tr’aedis’s own mimic Charles Restor. An imitation of the great AI-imitator actor, said to “have fundamentally transformed conceptions of Hamlet in the AI era”––well, from class. Tr’aedis couldn’t hide it from her.
Which he did not, as he beckoned forward, and somewhere in the long wall ahead opened up an alcove, from which John emerged; wearing nothing but orange, bowing to them both, and even wearing what people used to wear over a century ago, “hats.” Two of them, one on top of the other, and also both orange.
Eleanor laughed out loud––she couldn’t help herself––and almost as sharply as he had appeared, John returned to the alcove. I may be your only real friend, Tr’aedis, but that also means I can be honest around you sometimes, she thought, but noted that Tr’aedis had quickly shown a flash of disappointment.
He was still for a moment, but raised his head. “Ah, Eleanor––I was going to show you something, wasn’t I?”
Eleanor nodded. “Something from one of your twenty floors.”
“They were just trinkets. Faulty bits from my parents’ engineering. I don’t think I was going to show you them. Why are we really here, Elly?” he asked, and a moment later, fell; but just behind him appeared a floafa. Eleanor turned to see that one had manifested behind her as well. Showing off, in his own house.
“Upload, made only recently available to Plent households,” Tr’aedis indicated, as the silver outlines of the air portals winked out of existence. “Also, have something to drink from our house-system.” He leaned back, moving one of his hands through the air.
Nexus tubes slowly rose from the floor. Eleanor accessed Current System for Von Hiischklen House, Access permitted––Guest of Tr’aedis––then Food & drink––and she found what she usually got, Sparkle Fire which was just a firesimmer, which itself was Plent’s premier drink for young adults. Short of beginning to drink Everyday, the Sector’s flavorful combination of nanosugars, alcohol, and the current color of fruit.
Either way, she was just having what the Sector made and offered to her. The nexus tube gleamed, light glinting from within its depths, and in a glimmer of bright red orange the drink rose to the top. In an alter glass vase, and scintillating bubbles percolating throughout its shimmer. So delicious, so many high schoolers in the levgion were probably thinking.
“Well, we’re just continuing our discussion of society,” she said, taking a sip.
It was good, unfortunately. She looked up to see that Tr’aedis was having a gravitas, which was only the firesimmer without the “fire”––the percolation. He seemed to be enjoying it.
“Yes, Elly. We ended last time with the importance of engineers in high society.”
“Do you mean high society, or High the levgion? They don’t have engineers.”
“Your pun, Eleanor,” Tr’aedis responded, holding his glass. “You belong to a family of Netbankers. They haven’t been around as much.”
“Well, of course Tr’aedis, we began in Might. We weren’t born in Plent or descended from families in High, like you.”
“But I’m in Plent now.”
“That doesn’t matter. Don’t you remember when you’d spout High English back in mediary? When the teacher was talking.”
Tr’aedis laughed right at her. “Incredible, Eleanor. You remember my early days of success.”
“It wasn’t the stage,” she responded. Oh, how Tr’aedis loved it.
“Now that doesn’t matter. You know this, Elly,” he said, his voice actually deepening as he adopted the High English accent. The es sounding like ai’s. The lilts connecting the words together. “The whole world’s a stage, as Shakespeare said. We can perform anywhere.” He now looked at her, his head slightly turned down low, his thin yellow wisps of hair not even beginning to curl.
She snorted to herself. It wasn’t even close to a Fayar Gaebus V-movie. If that was what Tr’aedis was reenacting. Although she knew that he’d only talk about being performative in front of her, rather than just be.
“You were saying, on engineers? Your history, Professor.”
“They’re unimportant. Only Governors really maneuver society.”
“Because we live in one? Tr’aedis, that saying is over two hundred years old. You know what it means now.”
“‘We live in a society perfectly made’,” he quoted. “Edicts 1 through 500 after the dissolution of Congress.”
“What a thought,” she said. Governors. How many there were, no one exactly knew, a fact which used to be criticized, but after one of the Edicts, now nobody cared.
But they had shared these original thoughts before. They had discussed the rife perfections of society before. She put her head on her chin. “So when’s our next meeting?” she asked.
“It depends,” Tr’aedis answered.
“It depends on when we go to the Lowers.” He seemed to await her tidy response, well restored by Laconica.
“Interesting.”
To go down to the Lowers… so Tr’aedis was finally doing something. Taking action. Going to parade down with all of the Blazon Theater Company, which would never happen of course. Going to parade down, and pretend he was some esoteric, historic figure who had relieved themselves of filial and societal duty by observing the lower classes, in an area, the only area, that severely lacked the alter state they had otherwise.
Tr’aedis was having original thoughts!
“Sure, I’ll go,” she said. Because you have no one else. “It’ll be our own, parochial Blazon mini-theater class activity.” Because I humor you, that’s how kind I am.
“That’s perfect, Elly,” he said, beaming. “We’ll be showing those of an earlier age the perfection of the scions who live above.” He indicated her firesimmer with a hand. “Are you finished?”
Just about. Eleanor leaned back and savored the aftertaste.