Story #20 - Lightman

Lightman

Glancing at my watch again I noted that time continued to flow, now having stretched past 3:45 by a good margin. I'd been told to expect a visit from the Light Brigade today but I knew they had a reputation for being free with the times at which they actually appeared.

I'd also heard rumors that meetings with their representatives could seem like minutes but last hours, that they could demote or fire you with only barest of cause and my personal favorite: that they could consume your very soul.

The whole office was unhappy with the new government regulations and what we considered to be a serious breach in the public/private relationship, but the events of the past few years had cried out for strong leadership and Party Illum had delivered. At first, they had brought just what they promised; stability and equality for all, but as time marched on it became apparent that any aberrations in the functioning of a “quiet” society were to be met with decisive, almost brutal action.

I shivered and shook my head; I had done nothing wrong. Just to be sure, I walked through the events of the last week again, from that first meeting to my ultimate refusal. All was above board; all served the quiet.

There was a knock at door, a ghosting tap that left me wondering if I was hearing things, but a subtle glow around the door frame told me the Brigade had arrived.

I considered getting up to greet them but that could be viewed as too eager, too determined to prove my own innocence. The Brigade didn't want to see you unless they had questions to ask; unless they had a concern about what you'd been doing. You didn't go to them. Ever.

And I wouldn't start now.

“Enter!” I barked, keeping my voice low and gruff. Everyone around the office knew me as a real softie, but for the government men I'd have to put on a different face.

The door hushed open; its frame making almost no sound as it whispered through the air. Behind the door was a man – tall, studious, with gray hair and a long coat to match. Man and coat shared the same kind of drab dourness, a hanging sense of “meh”, of action long forgotten.

Of course, he was also radiating light.

Not much; not enough to brighten up the room – just enough to mark him as being brighter than his surroundings.

He said something but I didn't catch it. His light was too distracting, too unnatural. There was a bone-whiteness about it, a slick illumination that didn't, that couldn't occur in nature.

I shook my head just enough to break the effect and guessed that what he'd said was a greeting of some kind.

“Paul Limon, Director,” I stood and extended a hand but the Lightman ignored it and instead sat in the chair I'd placed on the opposite side of my desk.

“Mr. Limon,” the voice was dry and quiet and I had to strain to catch the words, “you have been tagged for consorting with an enemy of the people. How do you plead?” The light around him had grown more powerful, pushing out from his lean form almost to the edge of my desk. Something nagged at me as it came, something more than its color or consistency.

“Plead?” I kept my voice under control; I'd heard they liked to do things like this, “I don't at all. I'm not on trial.”

The other man shook his head slightly and then smiled, a wrong sort of thing on a too-thin face, a thing that didn't belong.

“You are known to have spoken to a Mr. Rodriguez. You are well aware of the sanctions that have been placed on outside trade and mercantile cooperation. Your company is not authorized for such dealings,” his voice sounded like that of a man but its cadence was off-beat, almost robotic.

I knew I hadn't done anything wrong, and I was willing to say as much, crazy voice be damned.

“He contacted me and I refused his offer as soon as I learned his country of origin. There is no fault here, no blame. The quiet abides.” That was their favorite catchphrase, and in a time of need it had been comforting, a soothing balm on a country wracked by war. Now it was a way to stick to the man, or whatever this thing was.

His light had made it onto my desk now and I finally saw what had been pulling my attention. The damn stuff didn't cast any shadows, not a one.

The picture of my wife and kids, my lamp and the few humorous nick-knacks I kept around all looked creepy as hell with no definition, no darkened lines to give depth to their forms. A sinking feeling kicked in – what if that light got to me, touched me? The thought made me gag.

“The contact was made, nonetheless, Mr. Limon. The peace has been disturbed,” he was leaning forward now, his voice focused, intense. Unable to see nuances, just like the light he was projecting.

“I cannot control what I cannot know,” I chose my words carefully now, “perhaps my conversation with Mr. Rodriguez disturbed the peace, as you say,” the light inched closer, “but my removal would be an even greater disturbance. Much of what the company does for the good, for the quiet, would be affected. You,” I pointed at him, “would choose to break the quiet?”

The light slipped back into him as though it had been chased by a ravening foe. Stock-straight in his chair, the Lightman began to sway back and forth, shadows playing across his smooth features.

“Thank you for your time,” I rose and made for the door and he followed, stiffly, “I am always glad to be of service to the Party.”

Spastically, he stumbled out the door and into the hallway and I slammed it shut behind him.

So. The Party wasn't perfect, after all.

I dashed to my desk and began to gather my things. They would be back.

- D