Story #73 - Towering

Towering

It wasn't the deep and foreboding blackness of the tower that made it so disconcerting, he decided; rather, it was the fact that it leaned ever so slightly to the left.

All was relative, of course, depending on where you stood, but from his vantage point it was clear: two hundred dark stories up and the Tower of Ministers was clearly leaning to the left, looming over the small square below as if to say, “I'm watching you.”

He was not one to personify the inanimate easily, but the Minsters themselves were scarcely human so he felt an obligation to impart emotional characteristics on something in the vicinity. What was more; no building should lean like that, especially not one constructed by those who deemed themselves more precise than the gods. No, this building was something else, something apart from the other, lower structures that surrounded it, a malignant force of quiet steel and tempered glass, a place no one sought to enter, least of all when forced.

Being forced was the only way they'd gotten him here, though his lack of guards gave the impression he was free. He'd expected a squad of Neuralizers at his door, after the vitriol he'd spilled two nights ago in public, but instead there was only a small electronic card. The symbol of the Tower was unmistakable, as was the implication on the card, with its meticulous list of addresses, phone numbers and descriptions of his family members and friends. The Ministry had made a study of fear, honed it with the sharp edge of science and then blurred it into art. They were masters, and it showed.

Waiting would do nothing for it; there was no rescue for a condemned man no one could see. A violent arrest at his home would have sparked outcry, questions, perhaps even an uprising, but a single man trudging toward the Tower was simply another sad case everyone could ignore – should ignore, if they knew what was good for them. From his own experiences watching similar figures make their way to the tall tower doors, he knew that ignorance was all he could expect.

The doors swung open as he approached; his life had been destroyed in a matter of forty-eight hours and he still hadn't seen a single person, hadn't put a single face to his misery. He smiled in spite of his fear – they were good, better even that he had been preaching.

Inside was a small square chamber and a desk with no chair. No dust clung to anything, no footprints marred the grey-tiled floor. If others like him – walking, breathing, feeling – had passed this way, no trace of them remained. Flat on the top of the desk was a small card with his name on it.

Flipping it over revealed the same cramped text he had seen on the card at his home, though far less information.

Down the hall. On your right. Room 123B.

There was nothing else. No threats, implied or obvious, and no request, no acknowledgment that he might choose not to comply. Behind him the doors latched hard, thick steel bars dropping into place, and he began to move down the hallway.

This had never been his intention; he wasn't a rebel, like those fools on the radio, just a man with a big mouth and ideas about the way things should be. A few pints at the pub shouldn't mean a calling card from the Ministry, shouldn't mean the life of a Citizen, but here he was. He knew better.

The door came more quickly than he had hoped, even at a slow, close-footed pace. Hands at his side he took a deep breath, then another, but before the third left his lungs the door swung open. On either side of the entrance, he could see lights along the corridor turning off, darkening the hallway, and he stepped inside, the door nearly catching him in the hip as he danced past.

“SIT.”

The voice was masculine and loud, with distinct reverberation that marked it as coming from a set of overhead speakers, and giving it a concert-like quality. In front of him was a smaller version of the desk at the front of the Tower, backed by one metal chair.

“NOW.”

A trace of irritation crept into the voice, and he sat.

“Let me explain,” he began, placing his hands on the desk, “I had been out with Marty, Marty McElroy, and -”

“SILENCE.”

Hands tightening into a hard grip on one another, he went quiet.

“YOUR EXPLANATIONS DO NOT MATTER. YOUR ACTIONS ARE IN QUESTION. DID YOU BLASPHEME AGAINST THE TOWER?”

The fact that the question was being asked meant they thought they had the answer. He had always told himself when they came looking for him that he would be strong, that he would stand up to whatever bullshit they spouted, but here, now, in the unknown and leaning blackness he thought better of it.

“Yes.” It was a small voice, one he barely recognized.

“YOU ARE TO CHOOSE.” His self-admission had not been recognized, but he decided pushing for conformation would be a poor use of his time. The side of the room opposite him illuminated, bringing with it two doors, each nondescript and each bare metal.

“THROUGH THE LEFT DOOR YOU WILL SERVICE US, IN WHATEVER MANNER WE REQUIRE. THUS WILL YOUR BLASPHEMING BE REPAID,” said the voice, precise and calm, “AND THROUGH THE RIGHT DOOR IS YOUR JUDGEMENT. NO SERVICE WILL BE REQUIRED; YOU WILL BE FREED OR YOU WILL DIE.”

Courage and fear churned in his brain but slowly, too slowly, never seeming to mix. For a moment he hesitated, crouching in his chair, hands locked in front of him, and then he was moving, diving for door on the left.

***

“Take this to Them,” the man said, passing a small punched card to his assistant, “all will want to know. That one considered the right-hand door for more than a second. They are becoming less afraid.”

- D