I am R’aegoth.
The Third Agent, the First Bureau of Purification, the Agency in 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 the two pieces that furnish it: the bed I left, and the empty repository. 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 dessin of a push-up. I second ascend, my mind, into the pictorial rosan of a poem.
“To be, or not to be,
That is the question;
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind—"
“R’aegoth, pizza time!”
—to suffer. Hector does not bring me pizza, he gives me time.
I turn my head and see the Fourth Agent, my subordinate to our esteemed calling and the origin of my altered poetry.
“The day begins with exercise, Hector.” As I squat, I notice the Fourth Agent still standing; he is leaning against the doorframe, hitting it softly as he lifts 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 it is no longer necessary.
“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 knowledge.
My day is soon begun, four hundred repetitions completed. I see Hector showing beads of sweat on his forehead as he had 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 parks at the door. Or rather, he crashes down it, his legs colliding. “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; instead, I stand to meet him. The door, it seems, has suffered no idle consequence. Hector follows as I leave my container of sleep.
The hallway before us goes on. It is a long way to the center of the Agency. I see Agents walking along it; those who choose to break their fast, going our way; those who seek the Alter Stone, heading north; those who read the Sector’s history in the Library, some feet ahead. The Agency is wide and true; room for all the world. The chambers of the great, predominantly lower ranked Agents regardless of Bureau, shadow the walls of the hallway as we walk past. Some Agents nod as they open their doors, and while none salute, bow, or kneel I acknowledge them. None make any motions towards Hector, besides saying such things as ‘Alter morning, Hector,’ or ‘Hi, Hector!’
Hector had been silent, but as we near the end of the hallway, begins speaking of his newfound plans for becoming First Agent. I feign comprehension, although I am walking ahead, so my reaction is moot.
We now depart this branch of the Agency’s octagon, and the slowly turning hallway that forms the radius of the Agency greets us. I continue walking, and as we pass by the Agents, Hector’s dreaming comes to a stop, and he returns to 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 sphere of refreshment. A good number of Agents populate its tables and floating couches. It is a sight I see each day, with or without my subordinate, a great white arena, polygonal, exact angles together defining the conversation beneath its ceiling. I feel as if I could describe it further, whether or not Hector hears. But there isn’t time for such a word. 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. The other Agents tread away from his steps. Unlike the Fourth Agent, the First meets my respect. Hector at this moment is––
––tapping my shoulder and pitching his arm toward a particular group of chairs. Upon them sit two Agents, who are far enough away in the white 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, sitting on their floating couches. There are no tables. The last time I was called to Tay and Kay for breaking my fast, due to Hector’s comeuppance, was yesterday.
For our Agency signifies true equality, that without descendants, endemic to our place, the Agents break merry. Our world has only paraded such social disparity. But I can only 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.
The Agent, Tay, is of shining yellow hair, with a chest robust in musculature; stable 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. Agent Tay’s has the letters T A Y 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 with curvature; strong 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. Agent Kay’s has the letters K A Y across her breast.
Hector is one for women, and Kay exceeds his expectations.
“BMPs built different,” Hector says in response. Tay throws back his head and laughs. Kay’s mouth twitches. Hector of course refers to the body-maintenance prescriptions equipped by every Agent, short of I, for I am R'aegoth. The Agents Tay and Kay simply have the best “BMPs” in the Agency, a fact to which Hector lifts off in the morning to prance in delight. For unlike them, he must walk the outside world, and meet to 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.”
“You are approaching,” he replies. Agent Kay nods. “Third Agent,” she says. She sits, and Agent Tay stands and walks over to Fourth Agent Hector. He pats his head. “Good morning, Hector,” he says, before returning to his seat. 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 I join them. Per the language of the Agency, the Bureaus commune. In the three 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 sips from his water. “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. She smiles.
“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 our vast space. I do not look––but I know already there is no Agent named such at this time.
“Where, how many, or rather, which Furies?” Kay asks, looking interested; and Hector signals. “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 furiously.
I shake my head. “Exercise.”
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.”
In one meaning he says true. If our world had been made differently, descendants would run among us. But their sheer majority percolates little, for being born with traits means little. Unless they are redrawn 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 mechanics 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.
“Furies are driven,” Hector says again.
This time, I shake my head.
“Let us go, Hector––to the briefing.”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
“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, bidding 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
- ?thelstan 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 sun’s light came through the sky, which didn’t have clouds, but Tr’aedis could see it. Shapeless 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, seemingly trapped, inside the container. 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 the 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 own front gate. The engineering heir was smirking, in the forced way Tr’aedis had, which meant he was acting as usual. He wore his go-to costume, the pedigree von Hiischklen: a typical t-shirt, and pants laced with alter steel around the edges. He wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short either; he 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.
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 nine years?
“I didn’t succumb to the sun this time,” he said, beckoning with his arm behind him—to the house that stood there. “I’ve got something majestic to show you.” Eleanor sighed. Majestic. She watched him stand for a moment before the front gate, entering the Housecode via receptor, and watched the gates open.
They crossed the lawn together. It took them a minute, and 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 access the Thoughtcode of 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 that was 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 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, posing smiles and even embraces 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, 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.
He did not, as he beckoned forward, and somewhere in the long wall opened 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, 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 here, Elly?” he asked, before falling backwards; 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 (airports, they were called) 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 Thought for Von Hiischklen House, Access permitted––Friend 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 nano sugars, 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 orange, the drink rose to the top. In an alter glass vase, scintillating bubbles percolating. Alter delicious, so many high schoolers in the levgion were probably thinking.
“Well, we’re just continuing our discussion of society,” she said while 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 deepening as he adopted the High English accent. The es sounding like ai’s. The lilts connect the words. “The whole world’s a stage, as Shakespeare said. We can perform anywhere.” He now looked at her, his head slightly turned down, 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 beginning your lesson on engineers?”
“They’re unimportant. Only Governors move 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 that used to be criticized, but after one of the Edicts, now nobody did.
But they had shared these thoughts before. They had discussed the rife perfections of society before. She put her hands below 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. Going down as some esoteric, historical figure who had relieved themselves of 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.
Hector's theme - “Give It All Your Sailor Fuku” (Lil Jon vs Lucky Star)
R'aegoth's theme - Sibelius' Symphony No. 2 in D Major, Op. 43