As the pair of monstrously oversized soldiers led Shylock Oldsmar to the Inquisitor’s room, he considered what might have led him into this atrocious end.1
He could think of nothing.2
He had been courteous. He had not spoken out. He had done his service to his nation to the utmost. He had, in other words, been the perfect peon of the authoritarian state that was the People’s Republic of Romana. He was, if nothing else, a patriot. He believed in The Plan just as much as even the Praetor himself. Perhaps more so, but then that would be questioning the loyalty of the Praetor. And that was an inquisitable offence in itself. But, Shylock thought, that really wouldn’t make a difference right now.3
Shylock was an old looking bird of 35. Slender, hawkish and ashen, he was the poster boy of civil servants everywhere. He was dedicated to a life of service to “the people”, and took joy in believing that he did good for them by documenting (and editing) their rich history in the National Archives. There was little else poor Shylock could take pleasure in…well, there was that little worker girl he paid for on the weekends and public holidays. But she was a pleasure too few and far between to be any real fun.4
He was getting tired. The soldiers had been quietly leading him to his ultimate doom for what seemed like hours. The fluorescent lights of the long corridors had begun to blur his vision considerably, and the endless dull beige halls were giving him a headache. No civilisation in the history of humanity had ever had so bland a government building as Romana. The most frivolous thing about it was the bathroom with a handicap toilet. Not that there were any that had any real reason to use it.5
Shylock started crying as his feet began to hurt. They really didn’t hurt that much, but he felt it was the only appropriate thing he could do at a moment like this. Maintaining his masculinity just didn’t matter anymore. Shylock was well aware of the horrors of the Ministry of Inquisition. He had once worked there. But perhaps it really wasn’t the torture he was about to endure that was making Shylock weep. Perhaps it was the fact that he knew he was innocent. It was the one thing that had kept him from falling to the floor and screaming until his lungs burst into bloody red masses.6
But there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could do!7
The words blared in his head like sirens.8
The Inquisition had never let anyone go, as far as he knew. So efficient were their tendrils. It was unthinkable to believe that they might be mistaken. And one of the highest orders of treason. Another inquisitable offence. But that was the very thing that Shylock was thinking, both ashamed and determined to believe it.9
Suddenly the guards stopped in front of a black door. This was the only black door in the building, the only one that wasn’t beige. It was the office of the Secretary of Inquisition. Shylock’s jaw almost fell off. He had not expected to be brought before the Secretary (of course, no one ever did, he thought). Apparently his crimes were far graver than he had suspected. He stopped crying.10
“He’s been waiting for you,” said the enormous soldier on his left.11
“Of course he’s been waiting for me!” said Shylock in an unexpected burst of fury.12
“I’m just doing my job, sir,” said the soldier.13
“Let him get angry,” said the soldier on his right, “Lord knows I’d want to let off a little steam if I were in his position.” It was as if he was mocking Shylock. Everyone was mocking him!14
“Just let me in!” said Shylock.15
“Suit yourself,” said the first soldier. With that he pressed a panel on the side of the door. The panel opened and revealed a small keypad. He typed in a few numbers. The door slid open. Shylock stared at the black corridor.16
“Come in,” said a voice from the room.17
Shylock took a few steps forward.18
“Good luck…”said one of the soldiers. Shylock turned around to stare at him.19
“Don’t tell him that! What good would that do him?” said the other soldier. They both saluted and stalked off. Shylock walked into the room. The only thing to do at this point was pray that the Secretary was…actually…there was really nothing he could pray for. Shylock’s brain went numb.20
Shylock had been in this office once before. It had been on his last day as an Officer of the Inquisition. He had been summoned to explain why he was opting to transfer out. When he had joined, he had thought by working in the Inquisition he was doing his society a service. But he could not stomach the work anymore. It was just too gruesome. This is not to say he was actually carrying out the administering of the inquisiting itself. Shylock was a “witness”. He watched men and women tortured in the most merciless and brutal fashion, and then wrote down anything they said, however incoherent and/or desperate. His transpositions (and others like them) were often the only basis of evidence for criminal cases that involved the state versus conspirators.21
“So…why are you leaving us Oldsmar?” said the Secretary of the Inquisition.22
“I’m afraid I don’t have the stomach for it anymore, sir,” Shylock said.23
“And where do you see yourself when we move you?” asked the Secretary.24
“Archives, sir,” said Shylock.25
“You may go,” the Secretary saluted him. Shylock returned the salute with perhaps too much force. He managed to hit himself quite hard.26
“Many people are very happy to get out of here,” said the Secretary, as Shylock left the room.27
“I wouldn’t know, sir,” he said unemotionally.28
Actually, he did. Few ended their careers in the Inquisition with their lives. 29
Author notes
Not finished, but I thought I'd put it out here.
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