Five Threats: A Game of Telephone Part 1
“In ancient eras they believed in the way of elections, granting citizens of all walks the power to vote and choose who leads them. It’s a good thing we know better now.” - Assanger Caesar, 787th President of the United States
There was a place that was not really a place. Not in the way someone would imagine it, because once they did imagine it, it would cease to be, and something else would take its place. Not in a malicious way, though that can occur, more like the difference between a blank page and an origami. Both are pieces of paper, it’s just one had something extra added to it. Like white rice that had chilli spice sprinkled on top. Fundamental change, but always made of the same stuff. Some would call that place the Undefined.
From that place, was Star-Witness-Mother-Last imagined into existence. All things born of the place knew their name, and from that name, Star-Witness-Mother-Last decided that she will be a she. She fell upon the stone, who she knew was Stone, because they told her.
I am Stone.
Stone was odd, they listened to all things, though it would be difficult to tease secrets out of them.
Surrounding her was Air-Dust, they didn’t deign to speak to her, though she was sure they could. Stubborn things, they thought themselves older than stone, and therefore above it.
Standing on Stone, Star-Witness-Mother-Last expressed her second name, seeing existence for the first time. Someone waited for her.
I am Grain-Interpreter-Cymantics. He cheerfully introduced himself, expressing Grain-Interpreter. Congratulations on your birthday!
He taught her the ways of ideas given life. All of them were born with names, some more than others, and Star-Witness-Mother-Last was born with four names! Grain-Interpreter-Cymatics thought himself lucky to be born with three, though he was trying to gain a fourth.
Maybe Teacher, or perhaps Midwife. He winked at her. I hang around so many infant ideas after all.
She stressed the Mother name in exasperation , she didn’t think herself young, the maternity of the Mother name made sure of that.
All things here had names, the meaning of names came from worlds afar inhabited by the Solid. Many of those worlds she would never visit, not because she was forbidden, he assured her as he stressed Interpreter, but simply because there were too many.
The more names one of them had, the more flexible they were. Grain-Interpreter-Cymatics could stress Grain, Interpreter, Cymatics, any combination of two or all three. Stone only knew how to be Stone, and what a tragedy that was.
That was when she expressed Star-Witness, becoming a light in the sky and seeing the world below. Interpreter waved at her, and became Interpreter-Cymatics, song and sand, together they danced lines that spoke to the sky.
What does it look like up there? The sand read.
Beautiful. Star-Witness answered. All things were things with names, dotting the vast Undefined like their own stars in the night sky.
Star-Witness-Mother-Last returned to Grain-Interpreter-Cymatics, Interpreter told her she would find others like them, they called themselves the Defined, and further divided themselves based on number of names. Most were Threes, though she would be a Fours, they will teach her more, though they will always let her be what she is and what she wants to be. Grain-Interpreter-Cymatics wanted to teach and greet new ones, so that’s what he did. He was also trying to make Air-Dust and Stone to each take up a new name, failing that, convincing them to change.
Air was the true challenge, he told her. For people inhaled air, and exhaled air again. Air did not change in the actions of the Solid, so its mind was stubborn and hard to change. It could become Wind sure, but it was still air in the end.
Stone, however, kindly old stone, was a different sort of challenge. The Solid did many things to stone. It was dug up and thrown, mined and smelted, stacked and cobbled, broken and gravelled, it changed to so many different things, so stone was always so eager to change because of the actions of people. Yet, the Solid oddly thought Stone as unchanging, as this bedrock beneath them that disliked change and wanted to stay as Stone. It was an intentional deception, Grain-Interpreter told her, because the Solid didn’t want Stone to change underneath their feet, otherwise they would have nothing to stand on! So Stone was always eager to change, but had difficulties doing so.
What should I do? She asked, expressing Star-Witness-Mother-Last all at once.
Try exploring. Grain-Interpreter replied. See what there is and what there isn’t.
But I just saw it all. Star-Witness said.
The perspective of stars is distant, everything looks too small from those eyes.
She nodded, and so left. Time didn’t pass in the place, except when he did. Socks-Existentialism-Flowers-Time was a kindly one, and the first other Fours she had met. He introduced her to Asymptote-Tea-Scholar, once Asymptote-Tea-Wise-Thinker, but she had collapsed the two names into one accidentally. That was the danger of changing, Scholar told her, for though Scholar encompassed both Wise and Thinker, she was ultimately made simpler and less expressive by becoming a Threes.
The two of them touched the Solid worlds, and have been working together to see if they can teach convenience store receipts existentialism. It was working as far as they could tell, receipts did nothing but float through life.
Star-Witness-Mother-Last bid them farewell and luck on their quest. She expressed each of her names, testing them, tasting them. She enjoyed being Star first and foremost, being with Sky and seeing everything below. Mother was strange, it gave her concepts of identity. Last was disturbing, and she tried to not express it as much.
When she had become comfortable with her place with the Defined, something breached into their world.
From her perspective as Star-Witness, they were tiny green men, fiddling with strange tools and making odd things and ends out of old things. Asymptote-Tea-Scholar said they weren’t actually green, they simply wore green clothing, what an odd concept.
Grain-Interpreter-Cymatics spoke with them first, being of the few that could speak to all. They were the Solid, those things that gave definition to all of them.
They came and brought ruin and death.
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“What is Democracy?” 787th President of the United States Assanger Caesar asked his grandson as they walked through the moonlit corridor.
“Democracy is the beginning and end of morality,” the young boy, no older than five, spoke, as if repeating from a textbook. “It is the one justice, the highest rationality.”
The older man nodded in approval, “You have been reading the Rationality then.”
“I have to know all the works by the 500th, grandfather.”
“As you should, as we all must,” Assanger Caesar said, looking out the window onto the moonlit garden outside.
“It was during Aurelius Caesar’s rule as the 500th President that the Mandate of Democracy was shattered,” he said, leading his grandson forward to a great and beautiful plaque. It depicted a great battle, on one side the heroic armies of man, bearing the stars and stripes of the One True Nation, on the other, monsters of red and black, crustacean and crab-like. At the centre of the piece stood two men, one tall, handsome and cast of gold, leading the armies of man.
The other man was monstrous, dark skinned with burning red eyes, he was depicted in the midst of smashing something, a pure gold disk.
“During his time, the High Traitor, Paradigm, sold out the human race to his alien masters, leading them to our reality. It was only thanks to quick thinking of Aurelius that humanity still goes on, for that, we owe him for his great heroism.
“But the traitor would not go down simply, Paradigm in a final, desperate act to ruin the world, destroyed Democracy,” the President told his grandson. “And so that is why it is us that must inherit the title of President, for the last man chosen was President Aurelius Caesar, and we are closest to him in mind and body as descendents of him.”
“Come,” the man said, leaving the mural, “I must show you something.”
And together, they entered a portal, leading to a brightly lit hallway, where men and women in medical coveralls worked in the quiet and sterile place. There lay hundreds and hundreds of beds, filled with the old, sick, and dying.
As the child followed his grandfather, he saw what they were doing. The people in beds were asleep, fed a constant drip of a clear liquid, and the medical people were mechanically, and orderly marking them with some kind of wooden stamp.
Assanger stopped by a bed, right next to an unconscious old man who was not getting drip fed. He raised a hand, and a stamp was given to him. “This is a miracle of civilisation,” he explained, showing the child the stamp. “It was created during the reign of the 634th President, and continues to be mass produced. What it does is that it forcibly awakens a mundane person to become a Hume Savant.”
And the President stamped it onto the unconscious, old man.
And the old man frantically opened his eyes, and screamed. He writhed and thrashed, but he was restrained. They all were.
“You cannot yet sense Hume,” the President said, uncaring of the man’s screaming, “so you could not have sensed the change. There is a cost associated with this change, a Condition, those stamped will suffer constant and unending pain. Pain that will grow and never be acclimated to.”
“The rules of abilities,” the boy murmured.
A nearby nurse came with a drip, she was the only one who seemed to notice the man’s screaming, the others continued to go about their work, some even looked vaguely annoyed, the man had interrupted their comfortable silence.
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The man immediately quieted as the drip entered his mouth.
“The drip eases his pain?” the child asked.
The President shook his head, “No, it paralyses them, so that their screaming and thrashing won’t bother with the surgery.”
“Surgery?” the child asked. He asked with only the tone of a genuinely curious child.
“To remove their brain, that is the only part that is required, they need not sense the world to become a Reality Anchor,” the President answered. “Look, look young Almes at his tattoo.”
The old man had only a single star and stripe on his arm, he was a Tier One Citizen.
“The First Fathers dictated the worth of men and women and their place within the United States. Every man and woman we take here are common labourers of low worth, their ailments are simply not cost effective to cure or fix, if not for the work of the 634th President, they would be simply left to die. Instead, they continue to benefit our great nation thanks to our generosity and insight.”
And Assanger placed the stamp in his grandson’s hands, “I will soon retire to let your father become the 788th President, and though your brother will become the 789th, you must learn to support him. Learn what you must do, the sacrifices the position requires of you.”
An old woman was wheeled up to them. She might’ve been a grandmother, an honest worker, a wife.
All these thoughts passed through the young child’s head as he stamped her.
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It was late afternoon when Rell was informed that her parents had died in a mine cave in.
They had perished the day prior. No one had thought to inform her, she only learned of it during her rounds. Pouring water for the council of second tier citizens. They were debating if they should bother retrieving the bodies of the cave in. With some shock and denial did she realise they were talking about the mines her parents worked in.
The conclusion was quickly reached.
Not worth it. They are only first tier citizens.
Something changed then.
Rell didn’t realise it at first. She didn’t realise when she was shoved out of the room. She didn’t realise when stumbled through the streets. She didn’t realise until she returned to the small hovel they called home.
She realised when she fell to her knees, crying.
Her tears were being caught in midair. Space bent as if it were a fabric, catching her tears. Pooling them in midair.
Rell realised then. The world felt colder. Bleaker.
Bluer.
She grabbed space like one might grab a common cloth. And she pulled it. She pulled it and wrapped it around her just like a blanket.
And Rell sat there, wrapped in space itself, crying.
Hiding in the Blue.
It was only when people began noticing the blue tint of the sky above her, that she was found.
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Almes Caesar sat by his grandfather as he died.
The old president never had the chance to retire. Almes’ father lasted only a few years into his presidency before he and Almes’ brother were both assassinated.
“Far too much freedom,” Assanger murmured. “Far too much. Remember Almes, he gave the low tiers freedom to choose what work they want to do, and what did they give him?”
“You are dying grandfather, please rest.”
“They killed him, they killed him along with your brother. Know this when you take the mantle. They did this to them, and they will do it to you too.”
Almes held his grandfather’s hand as he stilled. “Please rest, you have done enough. You have done enough for this country and the world.”
“Arcadia!” the old president suddenly gasped. “You have to conquer it!”
“Grandfather-”
Assanger didn’t listen, he simply continued. “I understood! I realised what the Democracy was! It was an AI! Built by the First Fathers to perfectly choose who should lead! For how could the human mind, even the First Fathers, have been perfect enough to choose the President?”
The president’s bony hands tightened around Almes’ with death grip. “It foresaw this! It foresaw its destruction and the decline that followed! That is why it chose Aurelius. For I his descendant understands!”
And Assanger stared at Almes with dying eyes. “You must continue the work. Conquer Arcadia. The Democracy must be resurrected!”
And the 787th President died. He would be known as Assanger the Law Bringer, for mending the chaos of the 788th who foolishly gave the low tiers rights. Like most other US presidents, he served his role for life.
Yet that was cold comfort for the now 789th President, Almes Caesar.
They settled him into his work quickly. Riots, rebellions and dissidents. Chunks of the country remained in chaos. Many of the geneline families only followed the presidency on the surface. The ungifted low tiers kept demanding rights. It was the same madness that struck his father. For as written in the Rationality, only what a person provided to the United States mattered.
Several months into his presidency, Almes Caesar was swamped with work. Papers towered his desk, his computer flashed with tasks to complete. His assistant brought a fresh pile of paper.
“What is it this time?”
“Savant production is stalling,” his assistant replied. “The stamps aren’t working as well as they did.”
Almes sighed. “What is the reason?”
“The value of life has lowered far too much, the sacrifices aren’t fulfilling the same costs as it once did,” the man evenly replied.
Almes tsked. “We need to ramp up production, stamp more people. Extend to more than just the old and dying.”
“Sir, the amount required would lower our workforce significantly. Perhaps we should lower the quota, allow the value of life to return to normal so that the spending can return to normal.”
He frowned. Rubbing his brow, he murmured. “We cannot compromise on safety. It is a necessary sacrifice.”
“Perhaps you should rest sir. You have spent far too much time working.”
“I cannot rest, for the nation needs me.”
“You will suffer loss in efficiency if you continue.”
Almes paused. Yes, that made sense. He needed to do his job efficiently. To rest was rational. But still, he asked. “How should I even rest? I cannot sleep nor take my mind off this.”
His assistant offered him a teleportation bracelet. “Perhaps to observe the great hallmarks of our country?”
Almes hesitantly put down his pen, and took the bracelet. “Perhaps.”
And they teleported.
First was to the Weshmin Mountains. There carved upon the rock were the faces of the First Fathers. Though their names had long been lost to time, their image and legacy remained. They were once four, but after his ancestor Aurelius’ rule, he too was added.
Almes breathed the wild wind of the land. Once upon a time he might’ve marvelled at the sculptures. At how the First Fathers had created the perfect utopia, before the Apocalypse ruined it all. Yet his mind was busy. His duty was too important.
His assistant noticed it. “Shall we go to the Green Lady next? See the prosperous lands under your rule?”
Almes shrugged. “Sure.”
They arrived at the island quickly. Yet even the magnificence of the ancient monument failed to move Almes. He had seen it far too many times in pictures.
But this close, he could see something at its base. An empty spot where a plaque would’ve been placed. Almes felt the edges, feeling the dust and grime. It had been removed for some time.
“What was written here?” he asked his assistant.
The man had to search it up within the secret archives. “A poem, most of it has been lost. It was written in the old Injish and was ripped out during the Last Day of Traitors.”
Ah, Aurelius’ purge. His ancestor was rather thorough. His assistant gave him the tablet, showing the translated fragments of the poem.
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
It was no wonder it was removed. It stank of the rhetoric by the traitors that undermined the nation during the early days of the Apocalypse. The United States was a land of pure rationality. Why would it ever take something that could not benefit it?
Yet, Almes eyes narrowed as he examined a picture of the original plaque.
It was far too old.
It was not set during the days of the Apocalypse, but before. He could not tell how he knew it, he was simply certain. Could the traitors have gone deeper than history suggested?
No, that was impossible. The United States was a perfect nation before the coming of the Apocalypse, that was well documented. So this plaque full of traitorous rhetoric was placed by them? For what purpose. Unless…
The cogs in Almes’ mind turned. Right now they needed more people. More workers and bodies to spend to keep the nation going. Where could they get it, other than forcing another breeding program?
Outside. His mind whispered.
And Almes laughed. Finally realising what was happening. He asked a question of his mind, and his mind answered.
Almes fiddled with his bracelet, following the steps his mind had given. His assistant raised his voice in question, but Almes had already teleported.
He now stood on the shoulder of the Green Lady, overlooking the bay. The secret service quickly appeared around him, as well as his assistant. Questioning.
“Worry not, I just thought I needed fresher air.”
“President, it’s dangerous up here-”
“I have solved our problems,” Almes calmly answered. “Assistant, call our generals. We need to incite a war in Southern and Central Muriganna.”
His assistant paused. “We are to make war on them?”
“No,” Almes answered. “Make them war against themselves. A few choice assassinations should do. I already know the targets.”
“For what purpose?”
It was poor form for a president to be questioned so directly, some might’ve called it downright traitorous, but Almes humoured him. “As the South and Centre destabilise, their people will flee to ours seeking peace.”
One of the Secret Service almost turned green, “Allow non-citizens into the US?”
“They can be re-educated,” Almes replied. “Once those nations are properly weakened, we shall go in as peacekeepers and conquer them. The fresh influx of resources should revitalise our nation. Not to mention reunification.”
They would unite the Muriganna’s for the first time since the Apocalypse.
“And if people refuse to be re-educated?” his assistant asked.
“We need more people to stamp, do we not?” he simply replied with a grin.
Almes now felt invincible. For he realised that he by himself was not needed to rescue the nation. Judging by the plaque, such a plan had been used since before the apocalypse, back during the golden utopia of their nation.
“We stand on the shoulders of giants,” Almes murmured. “Best to make use of the view.”
He had asked the question, he knew the steps, and each of those steps expanded within his mind, full of intricacy. The original ability of Aurelius the Thinker was manifesting within him. It should’ve manifested in every president once they had taken office, but it only appeared pitifully rarely. Aurelius didn’t have the chance to fully complete his Conditions after his battle. The last time was during the reign of the 642nd president, and all the things he accomplished… all the things Almes will now accomplish!
And Almes finally turned his mind to the sole thing he had refused to acknowledge. The final works of his grandfather.
The war on Arcadia. The resurrection of Democracy.
“Assistant, show me what my grandfather worked for.”