I can’t tell you how good it feels to be writing fresh fiction again. Like getting back from a two week road trip in the middle of the summer without air conditioning, and finally stepping into a hot shower in a cold room.
This story is a direct adaptation of a song by Josh Ritter called The Torch Committee. I’ll post a link to the song after the story, in an effort to handicap that utter masterpiece and give my own work a fighting chance of earning your respect.
The Torch Bearer
He wakes to warm light like a false sunrise, and sighs at the swiftly fading memory of a beautiful dream.
Something about a world of glass, and every wall a mirror.
Sutton has grown accustomed to working while the rest of the world sleeps. If he is tempted to resent being on call in the dead of night, he needs only remember what an honor it is to do the work he does. It also helps to be the best in his division, if not the entire Agency, with a virtually unbeatable success rate. He learned long ago that there is no better motivation than winning.
Living alone affords him the luxury of an apartment bathed in artificial daylight at 2am, while he takes a quick shower and dresses. Fifteen minutes after his faux-dawn alarm, Sutton leaves the lobby of his building.
A car pulls up to receive him. Inside, he faces the three other empty seats, and feels a slight twinge at this inefficiency. But at this hour, it can’t be helped. It is much too far to walk.
Though there are few other cars on the road, his diverts from its typical route due to scheduled maintenance, just as it starts to rain.
Sutton takes a deep breath and lets out a subtle buildup of anxiety as this new route takes his car through an encampment. Lightning strobes the hellish expanse, and he spots a few unregistered ghouls drifting between tents.
For a moment, the tension in his chest gets the better of him, and he shudders. He cannot understand how anyone can choose to live like that, with all the resources so readily accessible.
His destination is an edifice that was constructed after the tipping point in the protracted autonomous revolution, meaning no garages underneath or nearby. Instead, most everyone uses the front entrance, with its granite ramps and stairs, bracketed by post-modern busts of the Agency’s founders.
Paired with his biometric signature, the fingernail-sized Torch insignia on his collar opens the doors without the need for anyone to fill the guard stations, which, even when occupied, are mostly for show. Two solid inches of bullet-proof plexiglass won’t admit anyone without appropriately correlated credentials.
Sutton’s feet carry him across the empty lobby as his eyes linger on the much, much larger Torch mounted on the wall. Beautiful, graceful, brightening the path to the future. He feels renewed comfort and respect, and silently repeats the quasi-religious refrain…
How far we’ve come, how far we’ll go, through the darkness, holding the light.
He is not so young that he cannot remember the bad times.
Neither has he forgotten how opposition parties used to spread memes of mobs carrying pitchforks alongside Torches. An easy, pandering abuse of the iconography. No one ever accused the Olympics of being a mob.
There are still those who would extinguish the light. Benighted and stubborn enemies of civilization. Monsters.
After passing a handful of beleaguered assistants and lower ranking officials who can’t be blamed for not waving back at this hour, Sutton enjoys the undeniable pleasure of settling into his quiet office to prepare for a fresh assignment.
At his desk, he reviews the file.
Two kids, a husband who, by all appearances, is an upright citizen. And she looks like a nice woman. Perhaps with some wayward ideas, but not everyone can possess the vigilant discipline of a full time Torch Bearer. He feels hopeful that she can be reasoned with.
After jotting down a few details in his slate gray notebook with the white Torch emblazoned on the cover, he slips a block-letter printout of a list of names into the back, and heads down to the lower levels.
On the way to her room, he notices that the occupancy is unusually high tonight. His field counterparts must be making a big push. That would explain the size of the list he’s carrying.
He enters with a “Hello!” of earnest brightness. “Jessica Danson, right?”
She meets his eyes, but her expression is inscrutable. He had hoped for a softer greeting, but at least she seems calm, given the circumstances. It’s clear by the red welts puckering around the cords on her arms and legs that she’s been here for too long. He should have been brought earlier, and he tells her so.
“There was no need to bind you. As I understand it, that’s against policy. Unfortunately, I don’t have the authority to untie you, so why don’t we just make this as quick as we can, alright?”
Not even so much as a nod.
He’ll have to talk to the officers responsible. He can’t do his job properly unless they do theirs with a bit more respect for the rigorously optimized procedures.
He opens his notebook. “I assume you know why you’re here?”
No answer.
“Right, well, we’d better make sure we’re on the same page. You may have heard rumors about various anti-Torch terrorist groups. Most people aren’t aware, thank God, how violent and monstrous they can be. But even though they are poorly organized, fractious and competitive by nature, they pose a very real threat to loyalists such as yourself.
“Unfortunately, thanks to advances in quantum cryptography, it’s become increasingly challenging to ferret these terrorists out and bring them to justice.”
He gently opens his hand in her direction. “Hence these...somewhat less sophisticated measures.”
He looks down at his notebook.
“All that said, I feel very confident that this can be over soon, and then we can get you dressed and back to your family at home, where hopefully you can get a bit more sleep before the day starts. How does that sound?”
In her silence, he eyes the raw skin under the cords and mentally tsk tsks. The handbook clearly states that the accused are not to be physically harmed prior to interrogation, but he can already hear the field officer’s retort on the technicality that binding does not constitute physical harm.
He sits up a little straighter and gives Jessica his best sad smile, the one he practiced for months in front of a mirror back in training, the one that has earned him a series of early promotions.
“I really am sorry about your condition. I truly wish there was something I could do to make this a less...unpleasant experience for you.”
Still nothing. Damn.
He clears his throat. “OK, I’ll get right to the point. Someone put you on a list. Now, all by itself, this does not prove your involvement with terrorist groups, but it does trigger a closer inspection of your various discretionary activities, which, I’m sorry to say, raised a few red flags.
“Not to worry! These are primarily a function of our triangulation algorithms, and should not pose any serious threat to our process here.”
He flips a page.
“I know, I’m sorry. I tend to overexplain. Here’s the gist — my job is to help you clear your name, which will, believe it or not, be a big help to us in our ongoing efforts against the barbarians trying to do real harm to the fabric that holds our society together.”
He pauses, and holds her gaze.
“Look,” he says. “I know you want to get back to David, and Bonner, and little Josie.”
Finally, she looks away. Down, to the side, at the place where the eggshell-colored wall meets the yolk-colored floor.
He suppresses a smile of satisfaction.
“I know this is the last place in the world you want to be. Honestly, seeing you tied up like this — a wife, a mother, a loyalist — this is the hardest part of my job. Actually, I hate it.”
It’s the way that he says that last thing that brings her eyes back up to look at him again, this time searching for something. Solidarity. Genuine human connection. A friend.
This is the moment that divides the best from the rest.
“I’m going to tell you something that I’m not supposed to tell you,” he said, dropping his voice.
“The way this process works is, we show people a list of names. You’ve probably heard about that. And if you’re expecting me to pull one out for you, you’re right.
“But what most people don’t know, is that the list is a control. We already know who’s guilty, but we mix them in with other names, names of people who aren’t guilty of anything. What that does is protect the data, which helps us protect everyone else.”
Her eyes narrow, only slightly, and only for a split second, but he knows he almost has her.
“Now, even if I understood the math behind all this, I doubt I’d be able to explain it. The point is that you don’t have to worry that you will somehow be complicit in someone being punished for something they didn’t do. In other words, this isn’t a witch hunt.”
He leans back suddenly, smiling and shaking his head. “I know it looks like a witch hunt! Believe me, the PR is a nightmare. You think we’d do it if it didn’t work? No! But it does work. It does. Good people like you stay safe, and terrorists get their teeth yanked out.”
He holds his finger up. “Figuratively.”
And there it is. Her shoulders drop a quarter of an inch. The corners of her mouth twitch into the suggestion of a smile.
It’s time for the list.
He opens his notebook and draws it out like an afterthought.
“Take a look at this,” he says, laying it gently on her thighs.
Timing is everything. He must wait long enough for her to absorb a handful of the names she sees, but not so long that she feels he is giving her time to read it.
“See? It’s almost funny, when you know what you’re looking at. Brothers, cousins, aunts. People you’ve shared your life with. Patriots and citizens, just like you! Kids, some of them. Some strangers. Famous people you’ve never met. Maybe someone you hooked up with in college?”
He takes the piece of paper back and holds it up, just far enough that it won’t be possible for her to read any more names than she already has.
“It’s meaningless,” he says. “But it does work. Most of these names are just regular people. People you love! People who absolutely do not deserve to be accused. But some of them, and you won’t know which ones, are monsters.”
He lays the piece of paper on the back of his notebook.
“This next part,” he says, “is actually my favorite. Because I get to offer you a choice. And it will be the easiest choice you’ve ever made. Behind door number one, you sign this list to ratify it, and then you go home. Not only that, but you’ll be granted Torch Bearer status, which means you’ll have a certain level of immunity. You can’t be accused. Unless, you know, you do some terrorism.
“Behind door number two, you don’t sign it, and I’ll have to leave, and someone else will come in here, who is frankly a lot less interested in the kind of conversation we’re having right now. Going through door number two means…you don’t ever get to go through door number one.”
She’s not looking at him now, which is to be expected. It would be impossible to determine the exact contours of her motives, but making a decision of any weight at all typically requires the breaking of eye-contact.
He sees a tear go plap on her leg, and knows it’s time to close.
“Are you ready to leave this room through door number one?” he asks gently. And then, with an even softer voice, “Are you ready to go home?”
Another technique he drilled into himself during training: ask a question in a way that discreetly suggests its own answer.
Without raising her eyes, she nods.
While Sutton certainly does love the two doors speech, his true favorite moment is this one, when the warm feeling of success spreads from his belly to his scalp.
“Very good,” he says, getting to his feet. “Truly.”
He’s careful to avoid the angry red skin as he cuts the ties that bind her.
She takes an involuntary gasp as she brings her arms forward, both to cover her chest and massage the swelling.
He sits back down across from her and holds out the list, with a pen.
When she looks back up, her eyes are different.
Something hard and glittering. Somehow, beneath words, he knows what is in her heart, and it fills him with primal fear.
But then, like a cloud that briefly dims the sun, it passes.
She takes the proffered list, signs it, and hands it back.
After checking the signature, he slides the paper back into his notebook and stands.
Then, he means to say:
Congratulations. I know this whole process can be hard, and strange, and frightening! But it’s over now. You made the right decision. Keep holding the light.
But instead of those polished parting words, all he can choke out is, “Thank you,” before he practically flees the room.
On the other side of the closed door, he takes a deep breath. He knows his inelegant exit will have been recorded. With nearly no effort, he summons a white lie about a tickle in his throat, and the need to leave before disturbing this good citizen with a sudden coughing fit.
To give this lie its alibi, he coughs lustily into the crook of his arm, then finally walks back the direction he came.
Later, after all the paperwork has been done, and presumably long after the woman has been returned to her family, Sutton is in a different car, sitting across from three different empty seats. The dawn hasn’t yet penetrated the unseasonably heavy rain.
Passing once again through the encampment of the undocumented and unaccountable, a fresh volley of lightning reveals huddled clusters of the benighted inhabitants.
Are there more of them, now, than there were before?
Are they closer?
OK, now you may listen to the song.
Mr. Poetry Waxer <3