The Cheerful

“I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation.” Saton Mior’s voice was calm and level, a mask to hide the fire that licked at his heart.1

“I don’t think you understand the extent of my apathy,” retorted Captain-Commander Raul Creed, just as levelly but with an ice-cool undertone. Despite his lack of height he appeared to loom threateningly over the seated man. His eyes carried a cold and calculating quality that did not suit the rough set of his jaw or the stubble beard that covered it. He looked every part a mercenary, every part excepting his attire. The deep black Kevlar covered his full body making him seem twice the width he was, and he was bigger than most men. The pauldrons rose and joined – if not solidly or directly – an horizontal arch that covered the back of his neck, enhancing, once again, the appearance of his physique. In short, the armour made the small man appear a juggernaut, and he knew it. He shifted the black helmet he held under his arm – a yellow smiling face painted on it the only colour to his armour – and ran a hand through his short, spiked, black hair. “Look, Mior,” he began again, his tone unchanging, “the people are happy, The Cheerful are happy, you are... well you’re impossible to please-”2

“Silence!” Mior shouted, cutting the little soldier off completely, though if the later was surprised he hid it well. Saton smoothed the lap of his white robe to give him time to collect himself before he continued, but when he raised his wrinkled face to Creed again his eyes looked weary, sunken into his powerful visage. “Whether the people are happy is not yours to decide, Contented. Whether The Cheerful are happy is of little consequence to me or any other of the Zealous - especially not Lord-Master Alexander,” he added, seeing the other man gaze over his shoulder at the enthroned individual whom he sat before, whose council this was to call and with whose voice Saton spoke. Creed grunted to himself and ran his hand through his hair again, using it as an excuse to glance back at the three other armoured figures behind him. None of them moved a hair.3

“And finally, while the Zealous may not be easy to please, it is your duty to please us, Contented; by no means and no method is duty an easy thing to carry. I suggest, in future, you try harder to saddle your burden, rather than throwing it to the nearest bed upon which you may rest your weary head.” The man’s tone was never spiteful, and his voice never rose. He was a tutor discussing an unfortunate child. Creed was disheartened by the inaction of his fellows, and feeling the bite of the Voice’s words. Even if he would like to bite back, he had pushed too far already today and had no desire to find out what happened to Contented who lost favour with the Zealous. No desire at all. He decided upon a bow, only a fraction less than was expected of him, slapping his right fist against the top left of his breastplate as he rose, perhaps a fraction harder than he had intended.4

“As the Zealous have spoken, so do I, being content, obey.” That was to the letter, and sticking bitterly to his tongue to boot. He turned to leave, spinning on his heel, but Saton caught him first.5

“Creed.” Raul winced, his back turned and hesitation already evident. Clutching his helmet so tightly that his knuckles turned white under the black of his leather gloves, he turned to face the man again, glazing determination and pride onto his face. He hoped the man would not see through them.6

“Zealous Voice?” It was a measure of his nerves that he used the man’s full title without sneering or mocking, though he kept his tone inquisitory and confident; if only just. Creed heard a muffled laugh from behind him. R2 did enjoy the little things.7

“Your offering, Contented,” said Saton as if speaking to an ignorant fool of the most well known tradition in the world. It was not ignorance on Creed’s part though, but he never would have allowed it to be called fear. He was cautious and distrusting, he would say. Raul Creed would say many things, but these – in part – were true.8

“Yes, Voice,” the Contented uttered, unable to keep the despair from his speech but pushing it back as far as it would go. The speed with which he knelt would be enough to impress any man or God, but the Zealous, Creed – among others – had decided, were neither of these things. 9

He placed his helmet before him, perfectly centred, if only by eye. The yellow face beamed at him and he somewhat regretted facing it in his direction but to adjust it now would be foolish and seem disrespectful. He was no fool. He took off both of his gloves and placed them either side of the yellow visage so that the thumbs faced inwards, the hands pointed away from him as if they were trying to escape. That thought was not influenced by his mood. He breathed deeply to try and still the minute shaking of his hands; minute or not it needed to stop.10

Saton Mior, watching the air above Creed and the Cheerful that stood behind him, let no emotion show on his face whatsoever. His soul wore a smug smile though; he could see it in his mind’s eye. He ran a hand across the fold of fabric over his right leg, smoothing a crease in the beautiful silk. Taking his time while trying to seem efficient and formal, he raised his hand and gestured at the boy to Lord-Master Alexander’s right, who promptly dashed from the room, into a small chamber. That the boy was not prepared showed a lax in training – not that Saton would ever voice such an accusation – and indeed the veiled face of the enthroned man followed the boy out of the room. The eyes cast in shadow by his pointed cowl no doubt offered a penetrating glare. 11

The boy returned promptly with his gaze cast down rightfully in shame, lowering himself as he walked so that his head never stood higher than that of the seated Voice. Upon reaching the side of Mior’s chair he fell to his knees, making sure that no party of his body was more forward than that of the other man, even as he touched the ground with his forehead and presented the wrapped package over his head.12

Saton saw the smug smile again but maintained the ceremonial visage he had adopted as he reached for the package. That he had to reach at all irritated him, but the boy would not breach the Presence of a Zealous one. The child physically flinched as the Voice’s hand drew near him and as soon as the package left his skin his hands snapped underneath himself in an almost autonomous fashion. He would be a faithful Tool. 13

Placing the package carefully on his lap Saton redirected his gaze to Raul Creed, still bending knee. The man had not moved a hair; the amount of wax on his head may even have made that literal. He ran a spindly finger across the front of the package, caressing the coarse wool and the wax seal at its centre – a smiling, yellow face. He smiled, a compassionate smile, before catching himself. It was only a moment, but he cursed himself for the slip. Fortunately everyone appeared to be looking elsewhere.14

He broke the seal with his forefinger, a perfect sinuous line splitting the small circle exactly in half. Slowly he unwrapped the item that lay beneath the wool, as slowly as tradition and reverence dictated. The blade glinted in the light from the iron chandelier as the final piece of fabric was moved aside and this time the Voice managed to keep the smile inside. 15

It was a beautiful artefact, the blade being made of the purest silver and hilt of the most beautiful maple. Underneath the gleam of light were lines of scripture as dictated to the forger by the Lord-Master Alexander himself, from The Smiling God’s lips to Alexander’s tongue. The hilt was a collection of beautiful carvings depicting various degrees of euphoria in various forms of faces. Truly Bliss was glorious. Mior stroked the hilt with his forefinger, almost lost in a world of his own; drifting, at the least.16

“I make this offering,” began Creed, cutting short the Voice’s train of thought and making his soul sneer. “So that I, through the Zealous, will remain Cheerful.” 17

It was close enough to word perfect, Saton decided, and began to recite his own part.18

“I, being the Voice of the Lord-Master Alexander, do accept the offering made by the contented Raul Creed.” Reluctantly, though he never let it show, he held the blade out to the man, perfectly vertical and still glinting in the firelight.19

With a movement greatly faster than Saton would have liked, Creed grabbed the serrated blade in his bare hands, his knuckles turning white with the pressure he applied. He began to rise as blood dripped down the cool silver, little streams of crimson underlining the scripture of the Lord-Master, his face a picture of open determination. The blood began to pool on the hilt before Raul let the knife drop, the sound of metal parting impaled flesh announcing the separation of his hands. The blade dropped in what seemed like slow motion, minute glimpses of silver sparking off the light of the chandelier amidst the mottled, matte crimson of the sanguine fluid. It hit the stone floor with a clang and bounced twice, each jolt casting stains onto the tile. By the second bounce, the gun had already been drawn.20

Nine millimetre diameter of solid lead pierced the skull of the child who kneeled at the left of the Lord-Master’s throne, his eyes wide with surprise. With no small amount of brain matter and gore lobbed against the wall – thankfully missing his grace’s tapestry – the boy fell to his face.21

Red didn’t lower his pistol, though; one of the only firearms in Utopia. He watched the barrel smoke long after the casing hit the tiles.22

The Lord-Master didn’t move a hair, but the Voice turned to look at the body behind him and sighed. “Delighted,” he began in a tired voice, “Discipline in the Smiling Halls will be carried out by the Zealous or appointed Ecstatic, not by excitable members of The Cheerful” – Red gave a grunt – “however high they rank!” Besides, if anybody had the right to kill the boy it was Creed; it was his offering that had been dishonoured. They boy should have caught the knife! The training was lax indeed. Maybe the Lord-Master had not yet hired another Hand to train the Ecstatic; it was hard to find able bodied men and Roeden had executed the last one for trying to induct one of his Cheerful! The Delighted did seem to think the city was run on marshal law. Creed could have duelled Roeden for the Right to Honour, but such a thing was unlikely to happen among The Cheerful. In spite of their subservient position, they were very much a law unto themselves and there were very few who disliked Roeden, and none among the Contented – the Captain-Commanders – two of which were related to the man! The Voice would very much have liked soldiers who obeyed his orders, but there was a rift between obedience and efficiency; The Cheerful seemed to sit in the middle of it. They were loyal, almost to a fault, but they could spot a loop-hole from a mile off and exploit it from further. However, they were brutally efficient and determined enough to bite through steel, should the job require it. They were a compromise, in a way, and the Voice could not help but remember it. “Where did you get that thing anyway, Delighted?” Saton inquired, gesturing to the pistol as if it were the severed hand of some diseased enemy.23

“I built it,” the man replied simply, the gun still raised. He was easily the tallest in the room and a picture of quiet power. He wore the same black Kevlar as the rest of The Cheerful, his helmet strapped to the left of his belt, exposing his buzz-cut, dark blonde hair. He had the face of someone who had seen many battles, though not scarred or marked. He was clean shaven too, but his eyes held something dark. They still looked at the boy’s body, even while replying to the Voice, and harboured a cold recognition that said the child had escaped lightly. “You have this city,” he continued in his hoarse voice, “and I have my firearm.” He managed to stop himself from pluralising that; the Voice would not be pleased if he realised Red had set up an entire unit devoted to the Long Rifles he had built; as a precaution, of course. They called themselves the Red Rum Runners, which Oliver couldn’t quite decide if he appreciated or not. He didn’t appreciate the connotations. 24

He lowered his arm now, inspecting the pistol as if he had never seen it before, before holstering it back under his right arm. The man was primarily left-handed, the Voice knew, but he could execute ambidextrously. He was well practiced in the arts of war, and Saton had no doubt that the man did consider it an art; a thing of beauty and passion, not to be wasted or sneered at.25

“Both of us are better men for their existences,” Oliver managed to finish without grinning. He did not like the arrogance so prevalent in the Voice’s nature. He did as they asked, without fail, but that never seemed enough for them. He was a leader for his men, not for some pompous, jumped-up priest. “We go,” he said simply and Creed fell in behind him. “Zealous and Cheerful is the Lord-Master,” he recited and then turned to leave. 26

A mental snarl curled the lips of Saton’s soul. The Cheerful had added to the Lord-Master’s honorific, and while Alexander himself had made no comment it dug under Mior’s skin. The High-Lord rarely commented on anything. He was not even sure the man breathed unless it was absolutely necessary. 27

He watched the four black-clad men descend the path from the Smiling Hall and waited until they were far out of sight before rising. It took effort, now, he realised. He was getting on in years. He had served as the Zealous voice for three decades of his life and been alive some six more than that; he thought it was six, he couldn’t quite recall. He sighed to himself and brushed a hand down his right sleeve to remove a crease that wasn’t there. He realised the boy had left the side of his chair and the body had gone from the left of the Zealous Throne. The Ecstatic were blindly loyal, but kept together like puppies in a box. The boy would not have moved if any eyes had been on him; any eyes of authority. The Lord-Master did not count, simply because He would always see, in spite of his veiled visage. The Lord-Master still sat there now, legs crossed on the great gold throne. He had not moved a hair. The Zealous Voice often wondered if the man was actually real, but he knew better. The man was as real as this city, as real as this world. He was the avatar of the Smiling God.28

Saton Mior made his bows and uttered recitals before leaving the presence of the Lord-Master, always facing him unlike the blasphemous Cheerful. He would inquire as to whether the Lord-Master required him to induct another Zealous Hand at a more convenient time, and not just because he had begun to feel the gaze of the Zealous One weighing on his shoulders. 29

As soon as he was out of the Hall he swept the cowl from his head. There was much to be done.