MacSalterson
TNPer
- Pronouns
- They/Them
A Prelude
"Every revolution evaporates and leaves behind only the slime of a new bureaucracy"
- Franz Kafka
19.03.2023
A fluorescent tube overhead crackled and hummed quietly, just on the edge of hearing, as it washed the meeting room in that familiar sickly light. The room itself was nice enough, but signs of wear and age showed if you looked close enough at the edges - some damage to the carpet at the door and along the walls, a subtle water stain in one portion of the ceiling from some leak in the plumbing overhead, repaired years ago. It was exactly what one might describe when one thought of the archetypal conference room, and nothing more. At the moment, the room was practically filled to the brim as government representatives from the Offices of General Labor and Union Advisory Councils and representatives for the Chief Council of the National Revolutionary Laborer’s Union droned on to each other in regards to minutiae of something or other- probably the details of federal labor contracts and wages for union members, saturating the air with dense and intensely soporific legalese, only barely fought off with the nicotine of cigarettes and the caffeine of the particular tar-like brew of dark roasted coffee so popular among the Yeran. More people filled the room besides the officials seated at the meeting table itself - stenographers, assistants, junior officials and minor bureaucrats, and a small handful of security personnel, stationed near the door and utterly checked out from the proceedings.
A regular union member who had inexplicably ended up in the meeting had closed their eyes and let their head droop forward as they leaned back in one of the hard plastic seats at the edge of the room. They had made an attempt at wearing a button up shirt and tie, though the shirt was wrinkled and the tie was cheap - likely dragged out of storage in a hurried panic or possibly purchased off the rack at some store the day before the meeting, and the man as a whole looked like the type of person much more at home in a set of diesel and grease stained coveralls. Sfan, Federal Premier of the Stan Yera and the most powerful and dangerous man in the country, envied him. He was parked at the table itself, for some reason just as inexplicably required to attend this dull meeting as the poor laborer who had just dozed off from sheer boredom, except Sfan was, to his chagrin, not allowed to follow in his steps and nod off. He was 80 years old, for gods' sakes, even the most pitch-like coffee that was capable of dissolving metal spoons only barely staved off the narcolepsy of advanced age some days. He fiddled with a pack of cigarettes in his lap, his usual choice of the cheapest unfiltered rolls of off-white paper and the respiratory equivalent of coarse sandpaper - the kind favored by old soldiers and the self-loathing. His hands rested on the patterned blanket covering his lap as he flipped the pack over and back again. His input wasn't necessary, and the other people at the table blessedly ignored his presence for the most part, aside from the constant slight unease of being in the same room as someone who could, on a whim, have them dragged out of the room by one of the guards and summarily shot.
In the 30-odd years of relative peace that Sfan had run the country, he had never quite managed to comfortably settle into the role of an administrator or bureaucrat of a nation. His mind was still wired as that of a soldier, and he regularly found himself reminiscing on the days he spent fighting with rifles and artillery rather than with politics and diplomacy. Still, he grimly acknowledged the necessity of civil bureaucracy and all the torturous minutes and hours of meetings like this and the hand-cramping endless pages of policy to sign off on. A country would not run on the spirit of the glorious people's revolt, could not be controlled solely by a sweeping iron fist and the crushing of the fascist and the bourgeois. It ran on taxes, and public works, and a myriad by-laws and bills from the national to the municipal. Things would be so much easier if all it took was truly just bread and circuses, Sfan mused.
He felt a coughing fit coming on, and reached for his handkerchief. Covering his mouth with it, he gave a few coughs while waving off the sudden silence and stares of the others around the table, indicating he was not attempting to interrupt or object to something they had said. They resumed talking, and Sfan coughed a few more times before a familiar metallic tang coated his mouth. He slowly withdrew the handkerchief from his face and stared at it. A small, but starkly apparent splatter of arterial red stained the white cloth. His expression carefully neutral, he folded the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket, trying not to let his shock become apparent. The last thing he needed was to cause a scene. The time for worry would come later.
An hour or so later, the meeting was adjourned with all parties apparently satisfied. Sfan made his excuses and left, trying to hide the urgency in doing so. His chauffeur was already waiting at the entrance to the building. The drive back to Sfan’s home was short, only about 25 minutes. Exiting the car, Sfan neatly maneuvered himself into his wheelchair with the assistance of the chauffeur, thanked him, and headed inside as the man drove off. Finally alone, he moved to the dining table and took the handkerchief from his pocket, unfolding it and laying it on the table. The crimson stain, now mostly dried, seemed to stare back at him, inscrutable and utterly terrifying.
He reached into another pocket, removing his cellphone. He dialed his physician, not once taking his eyes off the bloody cloth. The phone rang twice before the other end picked up. Sfan spoke, his voice betraying nothing,
“Doctor K’etan”
“Premier. Do you need to see me?”
“Apologies for the short notice, Doctor, but yes. Sooner, rather than later.”
“I’d be able to see you in two days, first thing in the morning, if you’ll allow. Can I ask why?”
Sfan paused. He thought to himself, Even I'm not free from the risk of prying ears and eavesdroppers, best if I was vague.
“We'll discuss the reasons when we meet, Doctor. I'm sure you understand. That'll be all.”
Sfan hung up. K’etan was smart enough to gather the subtext there, certainly. The man had been his personal physician for the best part of thirteen years, and his unwavering commitment to confidentiality was greatly appreciated. The ever so subtle threat hanging over his head was largely unnecessary in maintaining the doctor's loyalty, but both understood the nature of things when it came to working for a person such as Sfan.
He set his phone down, and noticed that his hand was trembling, ever so slightly. Sfan, for an octogenarian, was remarkably physically sharp, and the tremors of age or some degenerative neuropathy had never plagued him. This trembling, then, was nothing more than pure and honest fear, he realized. Sfan, iron handed autocrat of the Stan Yera; Sfan, seasoned soldier and veteran of a long and bitter civil war; Sfan, who had seen monsters in the flesh and not so much as blinked, was scared of a few drops of blood.
That night, Sfan slept fitfully and dreamt of nothing.
"Every revolution evaporates and leaves behind only the slime of a new bureaucracy"
- Franz Kafka
19.03.2023
A fluorescent tube overhead crackled and hummed quietly, just on the edge of hearing, as it washed the meeting room in that familiar sickly light. The room itself was nice enough, but signs of wear and age showed if you looked close enough at the edges - some damage to the carpet at the door and along the walls, a subtle water stain in one portion of the ceiling from some leak in the plumbing overhead, repaired years ago. It was exactly what one might describe when one thought of the archetypal conference room, and nothing more. At the moment, the room was practically filled to the brim as government representatives from the Offices of General Labor and Union Advisory Councils and representatives for the Chief Council of the National Revolutionary Laborer’s Union droned on to each other in regards to minutiae of something or other- probably the details of federal labor contracts and wages for union members, saturating the air with dense and intensely soporific legalese, only barely fought off with the nicotine of cigarettes and the caffeine of the particular tar-like brew of dark roasted coffee so popular among the Yeran. More people filled the room besides the officials seated at the meeting table itself - stenographers, assistants, junior officials and minor bureaucrats, and a small handful of security personnel, stationed near the door and utterly checked out from the proceedings.
A regular union member who had inexplicably ended up in the meeting had closed their eyes and let their head droop forward as they leaned back in one of the hard plastic seats at the edge of the room. They had made an attempt at wearing a button up shirt and tie, though the shirt was wrinkled and the tie was cheap - likely dragged out of storage in a hurried panic or possibly purchased off the rack at some store the day before the meeting, and the man as a whole looked like the type of person much more at home in a set of diesel and grease stained coveralls. Sfan, Federal Premier of the Stan Yera and the most powerful and dangerous man in the country, envied him. He was parked at the table itself, for some reason just as inexplicably required to attend this dull meeting as the poor laborer who had just dozed off from sheer boredom, except Sfan was, to his chagrin, not allowed to follow in his steps and nod off. He was 80 years old, for gods' sakes, even the most pitch-like coffee that was capable of dissolving metal spoons only barely staved off the narcolepsy of advanced age some days. He fiddled with a pack of cigarettes in his lap, his usual choice of the cheapest unfiltered rolls of off-white paper and the respiratory equivalent of coarse sandpaper - the kind favored by old soldiers and the self-loathing. His hands rested on the patterned blanket covering his lap as he flipped the pack over and back again. His input wasn't necessary, and the other people at the table blessedly ignored his presence for the most part, aside from the constant slight unease of being in the same room as someone who could, on a whim, have them dragged out of the room by one of the guards and summarily shot.
In the 30-odd years of relative peace that Sfan had run the country, he had never quite managed to comfortably settle into the role of an administrator or bureaucrat of a nation. His mind was still wired as that of a soldier, and he regularly found himself reminiscing on the days he spent fighting with rifles and artillery rather than with politics and diplomacy. Still, he grimly acknowledged the necessity of civil bureaucracy and all the torturous minutes and hours of meetings like this and the hand-cramping endless pages of policy to sign off on. A country would not run on the spirit of the glorious people's revolt, could not be controlled solely by a sweeping iron fist and the crushing of the fascist and the bourgeois. It ran on taxes, and public works, and a myriad by-laws and bills from the national to the municipal. Things would be so much easier if all it took was truly just bread and circuses, Sfan mused.
He felt a coughing fit coming on, and reached for his handkerchief. Covering his mouth with it, he gave a few coughs while waving off the sudden silence and stares of the others around the table, indicating he was not attempting to interrupt or object to something they had said. They resumed talking, and Sfan coughed a few more times before a familiar metallic tang coated his mouth. He slowly withdrew the handkerchief from his face and stared at it. A small, but starkly apparent splatter of arterial red stained the white cloth. His expression carefully neutral, he folded the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket, trying not to let his shock become apparent. The last thing he needed was to cause a scene. The time for worry would come later.
An hour or so later, the meeting was adjourned with all parties apparently satisfied. Sfan made his excuses and left, trying to hide the urgency in doing so. His chauffeur was already waiting at the entrance to the building. The drive back to Sfan’s home was short, only about 25 minutes. Exiting the car, Sfan neatly maneuvered himself into his wheelchair with the assistance of the chauffeur, thanked him, and headed inside as the man drove off. Finally alone, he moved to the dining table and took the handkerchief from his pocket, unfolding it and laying it on the table. The crimson stain, now mostly dried, seemed to stare back at him, inscrutable and utterly terrifying.
He reached into another pocket, removing his cellphone. He dialed his physician, not once taking his eyes off the bloody cloth. The phone rang twice before the other end picked up. Sfan spoke, his voice betraying nothing,
“Doctor K’etan”
“Premier. Do you need to see me?”
“Apologies for the short notice, Doctor, but yes. Sooner, rather than later.”
“I’d be able to see you in two days, first thing in the morning, if you’ll allow. Can I ask why?”
Sfan paused. He thought to himself, Even I'm not free from the risk of prying ears and eavesdroppers, best if I was vague.
“We'll discuss the reasons when we meet, Doctor. I'm sure you understand. That'll be all.”
Sfan hung up. K’etan was smart enough to gather the subtext there, certainly. The man had been his personal physician for the best part of thirteen years, and his unwavering commitment to confidentiality was greatly appreciated. The ever so subtle threat hanging over his head was largely unnecessary in maintaining the doctor's loyalty, but both understood the nature of things when it came to working for a person such as Sfan.
He set his phone down, and noticed that his hand was trembling, ever so slightly. Sfan, for an octogenarian, was remarkably physically sharp, and the tremors of age or some degenerative neuropathy had never plagued him. This trembling, then, was nothing more than pure and honest fear, he realized. Sfan, iron handed autocrat of the Stan Yera; Sfan, seasoned soldier and veteran of a long and bitter civil war; Sfan, who had seen monsters in the flesh and not so much as blinked, was scared of a few drops of blood.
That night, Sfan slept fitfully and dreamt of nothing.