literature

The Directive

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My name is Syra Twelve and I am in isolation. What some call the Pit of Despair. But it is not the punishment Skymaster means it to be. I am not afraid of my thoughts. I am not broken though everything I have; the one that I love and the few things that I have valued have been taken from me. This punishment cannot compare to the one that came before.  

***
He will not look at me. I wait, not daring to call to him. A glance that was all I needed. A single glance to let me know that he is still with me, that he still loves.

I watch as he mounts the platform, my gaze devouring his face and figure. He has been washed and dressed in a new tunic but I know that there are fresh scars beneath the garments. I can tell by his gait that his physical pain is great. His shoulders sag and his bones are prominent beneath the skin but his body is whole. I cannot yet feel relief. I need to see his eyes.  

I watch as he kneels before the seat of penance, listen as the Prayer Master bids him confess his sin. His head comes up a little, his lips move in affirmation. He confesses to the sin of lust. Several eyes turn to me – accusing. I care not. They are not the eyes I want. Why won't he look at me?

***   

My current punishment has come about for being found in possession of more rations than my allotted due. (I took the extra for a starving six year old boy). This is deemed a sin. The sin of Gluttony.  

The boy was being punished for the same. Other than a little pulque to drink and a small piece of honey-cake he had not been fed for almost a week. To Skymaster, age is no factor when it comes to the degree or severity of punishment. No one is exempt.  

***
One month ago they'd taken him. I do not know why they'd taken him instead of me. I was the one who'd given us away. I'd been too eager for our scheduled assignations, the change in my demeanor too perceptible whenever he was near. Coupling, according to the rules was to be a brief, perfunctory affair, allowed for breeding purposes only.   

But one cannot be vigilant all the time and love is not so easily contained. Our lips and hands had lingered. Our hearts for those few glorious minutes had beat as one. We'd never spoken of love of course. What need did we have of words when eyes were far more eloquent than speech could ever be?
  
***

I do not remember how I came to be in this place, this planet called Atilon – no one does. I only know that I was not always a slave. Skymaster says that we were rescued from a dying world. I believe that to be a lie, one of many but it is of no importance at the moment. I am here and must make the best of my situation until the time is right.  

We slaves number around five thousand at present and live in a structured community beneath a dome that separates us from the rest of the planet. The dome is a force-field, our protection. We have been shown images of a world that is mostly barren and uninhabitable on the sun-side and besieged by fierce storms everywhere else. This stretch of land, roughly eight-three square miles is said to be the only safe place to live. The temperature here is carefully regulated, much like everything else; never too hot or too cold.  

I dream sometimes of naked skies, of nature unfettered. I dream of delicate flying creatures and slender stalks topped with blooms in colours that do not exist here. I dream of a vast, surging body of water with foam that rushes at my feet. I dream of secret places. I dream.

***
The Prayer Master reads from the tablet in his hand. The Purification speech. We know it by rote; can recite it in our sleep.  

What had they done to him during his confinement? I know he's been physically tortured but what have they done to his mind?  

I begin to despair. The speech is almost over and he has not yet looked at me. When the Prayer Master is finished they will take him away again. He will be assigned to another, (as I have been) when his body is healed and his purification complete. We will not be allowed to communicate with each other. He will not know the child I carry is his.
***

The community can be categorized into three groups. The mind-washed zealots who work along with Skymaster to keep us all in line, the sinners – those of us who must work to be purified and the graduated, those who are said to have achieved Enlightenment.

The graduated. Just another word in the endless propaganda we are fed. Just another word for the dead.  

There are others as well, they are called the Non, meaning non-entities. They are those whose minds and bodies have been broken beyond repair or who have died by their own hand. It is forbidden to speak of the Non. Their names are wiped from the roll call, their meager possessions incinerated. The living who become Non are taken away and never seen again. Not even their family members, those with whom they shared a pod are allowed to speak of them. We are not allowed to mourn. This, this, is the cruelest punishment of all. Grief is the one emotion that some of us have left.  

Every day begins the same. We rise at the first sign of dawn and recite the catechisms along with the inflectionless voice that emits from the speakers in our pod-like abodes. We eat breakfast then wash and proceed to assembly. We kneel in assembly, heads bowed, silent and waiting. Skymaster comes and scans the chip embedded at the base of our skulls, in turn. It is not enough that our actions are monitored every where in the community, that we have no privacy; it seeks to know our inner thoughts as well. There are chips embedded in the base of our skulls that help to serve this purpose. It scans our vitals and we are asked a series of questions that amounts to a test. Our emotional responses are evaluated during this test. We are judged and rewarded accordingly. The questions vary from day to day.  

When the evaluation is over, we receive our rations then our assignments, according to the level of our skill.  

We toil. Manufacturing parts and making repairs to the massive ship where Skymaster is thought to dwell. We build infrastructure and construct dwellings according to Skymaster's design. We weed and tend crops, feed and raise the few animals that inhabit the dome. There are no pets. There is no singing or dancing and little leisure time. Those who have been here long cannot recall such pastimes. The zealots believe that the only pleasant thing that can be is devotion. Those of us who know better, who remember happier times, guard such memories as best we can. We suppress our emotions as we are conditioned to do. Our faces are all one accord; we wear a mask of serenity. But I know that I am not alone in my defiance. A fire burns in the stillness and quietness of our souls. No words of rebellion have been spoken but the unrest, I feel it. The time is near.  

***
The Prayer Master finishes speaking. The crowd echoes his final words. "Skymaster saves! Skymaster purifies! All hail to our sovereign and keeper. Blessed be."  

My lips move also but no sound comes out. I burn and tremble waiting for some sign. My face however remains controlled. I have learned from my mistakes. At least those that I choose to learn from.  
 
My lover rises to his feet, slowly, painfully. Finally, he lifts his head. I almost forget myself and cry out.  He still loves! I see it. But there is something else . . . something is wrong.    

The emotion on his face is not subtle. He smiles and his grin is fierce. The Prayer Master looks momentarily confused. This is not a look of gratitude and humility. This is sin. This is Pride.  

No! No! My heart freezes as I comprehend what my love is about to do. I watch the barb slide from between his fingers; they do not hesitate as he plunges it into Prayer Master's neck. The poison is swift and in a moment, before anyone can think to act, the priest is dead.

My love looks at me. He is beatific, radiant ― and in that moment I love him more than I ever dreamed it was possible to love — but Skymaster comes. We share one last look then he turns the poison on himself.  

I stand unmoving. I do not scream or cry. I think of our child.
  
***

Skymaster is not like us. It is unknown if it is a sentient being or just a highly advanced artificial intelligence programmed by a would-be god. I have spoken of it as a single entity but this is not strictly the case. There is an army of many-armed drones that zip along, monitoring us while we live and work, issuing directives and meting out punishment. But they are all one mind. They are all Skymaster. I pray for the day when my children's children will not know its name.  

***
His name is Esthan, his father's true name, whispered to me in the deepest part of night; a secret known only to me. He is quick and clever with a knack for hiding items between his fingers and toes. A boy not very tall in stature or well-muscled but I like the way he moves, his casual grace. There is life in his gestures and behind his eyes, the promise of inner worlds to explore. It is not something Skymaster can evaluate or comprehend, not something it can erase.  

I was handing out rations on the day his father and I met, to him and the others who were working aboard the ship. Our fingers touched; mine clumsy, his gentle and deliberate and that was all it took. We are still kindred, him and I, though he is long gone. I will perish in sin. This heart will never be pure.


-End
Based on a dream I had last night.

Edit: 6-22-2012. Made a few verb tense corrections, restructured some sentences for clarification and tweaked the ending.
© 2012 - 2024 leyghan
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Rhetoricism's avatar
Wonderfully wrought, I must say. The defiance and the oppression of the narrator-- indeed, of all the lower caste, was almost tangible.