“Oriole without wing”

Andrey

There is uncollected garbage lying around the house, a mountain of gravel rises on the left side. It was brought here to level the road leading from the highway through the village and to the water tower, awkwardly sticking out above the low roofs of one-story buildings. Andrey smokes, covering his cigarette from the February wind with his chilled fingers. He notices some movement near the container with donated clothes. This is Mahmoud. Andrey takes a deeper drag. He feels sorry for Mahmoud; nothing good awaits him in his next life. Andrey hides the cigarette butt in his hand and goes to the house. Frozen clay crunches under the boots. A timid dawn is breaking in the east. In the house, opening the bedroom door, Andrei looks at the sleeping children, five-year-old Io and seven-year-old Alex. His wife Min is sleeping in the next bedroom. The silence and peace that emanates from the measured breathing of the children does not allow him to realize that this evening everything will end for them here. But the thought of this pushes him to action. He goes outside again and walks towards the highway. He immediately gets a ride.

“Can you give me a lift to the administration?” asks Andrey a young guy in a baseball cap.

“Hop in.”

Andrey sits on the passenger seat smeared with engine oil. He looks at the driver. The man is dressed in a greasy overall with rolled-up sleeves. His sun-kissed hands are dirty from daily rough work.

“Mechanic from the base?” asks Andrey.

“Yeah, seventh month. And you?” the guy lights a cigarette with marijuana.

“Engineer,” Andrey replies. “Leaving today,” he adds after a few seconds.

“Aah,” the mechanic exhales smoke and looks at Andrey with interest. Andrey recognizes this look. “May you be rewarded,” the guy calmly utters the ritual words.

“And may you be rewarded for your deeds,” Andrey says the second half of the sacred phrase, and they continue their journey in silence.

Andrey looks out the window. Along the road, there are long blank fences – behind them are construction sites. City 1021B is expanding, reinforced concrete skyscrapers rise one after another. Tower cranes are still asleep, but in half an hour, giant mechanical birds will come to life and start moving, swinging their heads on hundred-meter steel bars. Ant-like builders will crawl along them in their orange safety helmets. Andrey designed this new neighborhood. Mechanically, he still thinks about the unresolved issue with utilities, but then remembers that it’s no longer his concern.

In the administration, Andrey immediately notices the commotion reigning there. A small, balding clerk rushes past him with a face twisted in annoyance. A tall woman with curly ash-colored hair glides by with tear-redened eyes, clutching some printed sheets in her hands. A group of men stands by the green corner, talking in muted voices, half of their faces somber, the other half bored. The air is filled with cigarette smoke. Andrey walks down the long corridor with worn yellow parquet flooring, turns towards the entrance to the reception hall, and stops. To his right, he sees the open door of a spacious office with mahogany furniture. An luxurious carpet lies on the floor, and above the carpet, Chief of Staff Ryan O’Neal hangs in a shapeless heap on a rope tied to a chandelier hook. Ryan is dead. Andrey can’t tear his gaze away from the blackened face. They knew each other. Ryan’s term expired one day after Andrey’s. Someone nudges him in the shoulder, and he hears, “Let me through! The riff-raff will come running.” Three people squeeze past Andrey into the office. These are bailiffs and a doctor – they must document the death. Andrey realizes that he has nothing to do here right now – in the next hour, no one in the administration will deal with his garbage and gravel.

Outside, on the porch, he lights a cigarette. The dull milky morning light floods the surroundings. Hurrying residents of the administrative town and its districts scurry past Andrey, hunched over, focused on their way to work. In everyone’s eyes, there’s only one thing – to make it, make it, make it within their term, to contribute and secure a worthy new life for themselves. Perhaps for Andrey, this is the first day in the last three years when he can look at this scene with the eyes of an outsider observer. He no longer needs to rush anywhere. He thinks about the suicide inside the building. Both of them were twenty when the Big Turn happened, and the First Consul showed the world a New Path. Andrey somehow adapted to the new reality, while Ryan held onto memories too strongly, and now he’s dead.

Suddenly Andrey feels a vibration in the chest area – this is a communication device in the inner pocket of his jacket reporting an incoming request. He retrieves a flat black box and extends the reception antenna. As usual, deciphering anything amidst the interference and noise is extremely difficult. But gradually, he distinguishes individual words, and as their meaning comes together, a chill runs down his spine. “Home,” “Ghosts,” “Min.” These words ring in Andrey’s ears as he runs towards the road. Standing in the bed of a truck, clutching the jagged steel edges with numb hands, he’s ready to cry out in despair. Why did he leave home today?

The dump truck stops by the roadside, and Andrey, jumping over the side, lands on the ground. He rushes like the wind and within a minute bursts into the front of his house. Swinging open the door of the living room, he steps inside. Sitting close together on the old sofa are his wife and their children. Their faces are worried, but they’re okay. Andrey feels the steel vice grip around his heart suddenly release. Kneeling down, he hugs Min and the children. Against the wall, Anil stands with crossed legs, smoking a cigarette. He’s a senior officer of the Order Maintenance Forces. He nods to Andrey. Andrey gets up, and they shake hands.

“What happened?” asks Andrey, wiping blood from his right hand. Apparently, he injured himself jumping off the truck.

“The ‘ghosts’ paid you a visit. But everything’s fine, don’t worry, Mahmoud scared them off. He was rummaging through the trash from the back and saw them sneaking into the house through the air intake. But I was in another sector, took me a while to get here,” Anil’s voice carries frustration.

“What about Mahmoud?” Andrey asks the officer.

“He got roughed up pretty badly.”

“Where is he now?”

“Taken to the hospital a few minutes before you arrived.” Andrey thinks about how incredibly lucky they were. Then he looks into Anil’s black eyes.

“Thank you.”

“For what?” Anil asks, his mouth twisting.

“For everything.”

Anil understands what Andrey means. Over the three years, they became what would have been called friends before the Big Turn. But from tomorrow they will never hear from each other again and will remain only memories, among a host of other similar memories.

“I’ll check in tonight, the house will remain under surveillance for now,” says Anil, heading towards the exit. Passing by Alex, he ruffles his hair, and the boy smiles happily. The kids love Anil.

In the hospital room, a dim electric light casts a pallid glow. Yellow streaks on the ceiling suggest water leaks at some point. The walls, up to half the height, are painted a dreary swamp color. Andrey looks at the rough, large drops of dried paint, then shifts his gaze to Mahmoud lying on the bed. His eyes are closed, no movement. His dark skin seems even darker, his facial features dissolved, lost within themselves. One might think he’s dead if not for the purposeful crackling of life support equipment, the flashing green light, and a small convex screen displaying a nervous, swift curve with every heartbeat. Mahmoud is in a coma. Andrey places his palm on his cool forehead, trying to penetrate the twilight world of this stranger to him. “Why do you sink lower and lower with each turn?” asks Andrey’s silent face. “Can’t you find the strength within yourself? Do not want? Do not believe?” The face remains silent. Andrey feels frightened by his own questions and by this eloquent silence. Clutching Mahmoud’s hand in farewell, he rushes out of the room.

Like any other life, this life ends at midnight. There’s little time left for preparations, but before returning home, Andrey makes a detour to the Temple. A paved path leads from the gate to the main entrance through the garden. Andrey slows his pace – here, rushing is not allowed. The heavy wet trees and mossy boulders prepare the soul to open up – contemplating them is mandatory. Sitting on the marble steps under the canopy is an old man in a yellow robe, smoking a long pipe. Folding his hands on his chest, Andrey greets him with a bow. Opening the heavy door, Andrei crosses himself and steps into the twilight. Rows of candles burn on his left and right. He walks slowly along the gently flickering tongues of flame. Ahead lies the entrance to the round Hall of prayers. He approaches one of the Figures. It’s a wooden sculpture – Jesus Christ on the cross. Andrey kneels before the Savior.

“Today, I ask you for one thing. Today, I ask not for myself. Grant Mahmoud health, let him wake up, give him light, give him happiness,” Andrey deeply inhales the scent of incense and rises from his knees.

Along the carpet with intricate patterns, he moves to the next Figure – a bronze Buddha. Here, too, he kneels and repeats his request. He asks for the same from the Prophet Muhammad, from Shiva, from Yahweh, from the great and small deities of all corners of the Earth. He repeats his request so many times that he no longer notices if he is still uttering any words, or if the plea flows from him, disembodied, light as breath, as a tear.

When Andrey leaves the Temple, he feels calm in his soul. The dark foliage bids him farewell with a quiet rustle. The heavy branches sway slowly, as if waving goodbye.

Several hours later, Andrey, Min, and the children arrive at Distribution Point No. 10254. Leaving the door of the house that they would never see again, his wife told him something that now rolls around in Andrei’s thoughts like a lead ball. The “ghosts” didn’t try to take them by force – they tried to persuade Min to leave with them willingly. To voluntarily join those who rejected the New Path? Who would agree to such a thing? Terrifying stories circulate about the “ghosts”: their wildness, cruelty, and inhumanity. The lead ball troubles Andrey, but right now, he doesn’t have time to seriously consider everything. He looks at the giant display board glowing above the tracks. Everything has already been calculated and weighed, and now the indifferent machinery determines their fate. The direction code lights up, and Andrey wipes sweat from his brow. Smoke and noise fill the air. Tens of thousands of people, like a sea, fill the platforms between the tracks. Huge trains saturate the air with rumbling, clattering, and whistling. The doors of the three-story cars open, and on the platforms emerge the new residents of City 1021B, clutching their modest belongings. Some with tired faces, others with burning eyes, but all as one – entering this world as if newborn, without a past, to start anew.

Here comes their train. The train doors open, bright electric light spills out from inside, and Mozart’s music plays – some concert. Andrey, Min, and the children step inside. They find their seats and settle in. The children are excited – it’s all new to them, they fidget and squirm. Soon, everyone around settles down, and the train becomes quieter. Through the sounds of violins, an alien sound is heard. Andrey realizes it’s someone quietly crying. He grips the armrests and closes his eyes. The train sets off.

The First Consul

The gold-trimmed bathroom is illuminated by candles in silver candlesticks. Edmund, the First Consul of the New Path, leans against the marble sink, staring at himself in the mirror. Staring back at him sternly is a stout, bearded sixty-year-old man. A deep wrinkle cuts a sharp line across the forehead. Behind round glasses, sharp eyes gleam. Sparks dance in his eyes.

So, they finally decided to conspire against him. And judging by the report from the Secret Service, they were quite successful at it. It wasn’t exactly unexpected for Edmund—over the past few years, opposing movements had gained strength, and sooner or later something like this had to happen. But seeing Vincent’s name among the conspirators was a blow. Vincent was one of his old comrades and like-minded individuals. They both fought in the Great War and saw all its horrors. They witnessed the extermination of hundreds of millions, and returned home gray. And so, when twenty years ago Edmund, in a feverish frenzy, presented the concept of the New Way to a laughing crowd, Vincent was one of the few whose eyes lit up.  Together they planned and executed the revolution, raising the flag of a new life and a new man. Yes, over the years, their views on methods and outcomes diverged more and more, and after many arguments, coldness and mutual disappointment crept into their relationship, but Edmund never would have believed that Vincent would betray him by joining a secret conspiracy. Things were looking grim. Vincent’s political weight could make possible what just five years ago seemed unthinkable—Edmund not being re-elected as First Consul. The man in the mirror grits his teeth.

The helicopter’s blades spin slowly as Edmund leans back into the soft, comfortable seat. Soon, the machine smoothly lifts off the ground and gains altitude. Below, he sees the lights of his residence disappearing into the February fog. There are two days left until the meeting, and there is still time to turn everything in his favour. But it will require compromising certain principles.

An hour later, the helicopter lands on the rooftop pad of a huge castle. It’s a medieval fortress, expanded and outfitted for modern needs. They are greeted by servants in livery holding electric torches. Standing on the red carpet, holding a black umbrella, is the party’s first secretary, Marco Rudberg. He bows to the First Consul with his usual obsequious smile, but this time Edmund senses a hidden triumph in it. Without betraying his feelings, he nods in return, and they proceed to the inner chambers. Edmund is struck by the luxury of Marco’s residence. Everywhere there is platinum, pearls, and jade, carved panels of redwood, ivory, and amber on the walls and ceiling. He remembers the early days of the party and the austerity demanded of every member. Now, those norms are fading, and while not everyone openly flaunted their wealth, the first secretary Marco was one of those who no longer hid anything, as if saying that a different time had come.

The fireplace is burning in the office. Marco pours cognac into their glasses and they sit down in comfortable leather chairs. Edmund takes a sip, and a pleasant, spicy warmth envelops his throat.

“I want to talk to you about the elections, Marco,” he begins. “I need a guarantee of support from your faction.”

The first secretary looks at Edmund with an innocent gaze. “Do you really doubt our support?” he asks with a smile.

Edmund ignores this question.

“Vincent won’t give you what you want,” he says wearily. “He won’t agree to increase the quotas.”

“Why do you think the quota issue is so important to me?” Marco smiles cunningly.

“Stop it, Marco,” Edmund frowns. “Everyone knows what you’re after.”

“Equality,” Marco replies.

“Bullshit! You want power.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” the first secretary asks in an icy voice.

Edmund stands up. “If your faction supports me, I’ll lift the ban on increasing quotas.”

Before leaving the office, he pauses for a few seconds, as if to examine the painting above the door. He needs his words to carry their full weight.

“The word of the First Consul?” Marco asks quietly.

“The word of the First Consul,” Edmund reluctantly confirms and leaves.

On the way back, he ponders whether he did the right thing. Quotas for permanent staff were introduced to prevent any party leader from becoming too entrenched, turning into a dominant force. Constant rotation ensures a balance of power. Cancelling the quotas will lead to the strengthening of those who are willing to pay more than others and who are not afraid of playing dirty, with Marco being the first among them. This will upset the balance in the fragile system of planetary governance. The consequences were difficult to predict. But Edmund will have to deal with that later. Right now, the main thing is to keep his position. He will remain the First Consul for another two years, and executive power will still be in his hands, so he will still fight.

 The Round Hall of Meetings is filled with people. Heavy crystal chandeliers shine brightly. Through the partially open door, Edmund looks at the party members sitting in their blue armchairs, waiting for his appearance. A monotonous hum of several hundred voices hangs in the air. Finally, he pushes the heavy door, and the hum subsides. In the ringing silence, he walks to his place behind the long table on the dais, where the First Secretary Marco, Second Consuls Vincent and Grigory Yeshchenko, and several other members of the board are already seated. The entire hall stands up and bows to the First Consul. A thunderous “Glory to the New Path!” rings out in the air, and everyone takes their seats. Marco opens the meeting. First, they vote on minor issues. This lasts for an hour, after which Marco announces a break. Some party members disperse, some remain in their seats and converse, awaiting the main event. Edmund catches curious glances directed at him. He notices that they are also looking at Vincent in the same way.

Finally, the break ends, and the elections for the First Consul begin. Marco reads out the list of names with a resonant voice, and party members cast their votes for one of the four candidates using the monitors at their desks. After five minutes, everyone finishes, and the final result is displayed on the main monitor. Everyone stands up from their seats, and once again, a thunderous “Glory to the New Path!” is heard, as well as “Long live the First Consul!” An avalanche of applause descends on Edmund, to his left he sees Marco enthusiastically clapping his hands, and behind him – Vincent’s pale face. Catching Edmund’s gaze, Vincent sadly smiles. The tenth consecutive victory in the elections for the First Consul. Everyone voted for him as one. Edmund knows that when the time comes and he is defeated, the defeat will also be absolute. No one will vote “for”.

At the end of the meeting, there are ceremonial personal meetings between the members of the board and the First Consul. Edmund sits behind a massive table, holding directives that he distributes to those entering. When it’s Vincent’s turn, Edmund signals, and soldiers from the secret service – the personal army of the First Consul – step forward from the niches around the room. Edmund silently hands Vincent his directive.

“What’s this?” Vincent asks, weighing the gold-plated envelope in his hand. His voice is calm.

“You will leave your position within three days.”

“Official reason?”

“Loss of trust.”

“You do not trust me?”

“Do you dare ask?” rage boils within Edmund.

“Nothing is above the New Path, as you used to say,” Vincent boldly meets his gaze.

“I am the New Path,” Edmund says grimly.

“No,” the Second Consul shakes his head, “you have long lost sight of all the landmarks. Do you remember how we used to visit the observation towers at the distribution points? And you said that if we saw too many unhappy faces, you were ready to present ten more concepts to the world, just to instill faith in the future in the eyes of a stranger on the platform. You spent hours in front of those monitors.”

“You know I no longer have time for that.”

“You will be the downfall of your cause, Edmund,” Vincent concludes sadly. “Whatever promises you make to Marco, this will be the beginning of the end.”

“You are dismissed, Second Consul,” Edmund waves his hand. Vincent leaves the hall with a firm stride.

Once again, Edmund is in the helicopter, listening to the steady roar of the rotating blades. The First Consul feels uneasy, and he tries to drown out the vague cacophony of feelings and thoughts with another double whiskey. But instead of dulling his perception, the alcohol only intensifies some oppressive tightness in his chest. In the night, the earth shines with the lights of cities and settlements, and suddenly a thought comes to his mind.

“Arkady,” he says into the communication microphone.

“Listening,” the pilot’s voice comes through the headphones.

“How far to the nearest distribution point?”

“Distribution Point No. 10254 is a hundred and fifty kilometers away.”

“Let’s head there.”

“Understood. Changing course.”

A two-hundred-meter observation tower looms over the web of railway tracks. In the round monitoring room, Edmund looks at hundreds of screens covering the walls from floor to ceiling. Hundreds of faces, hundreds of fates. The only honest way to assess the consequences of what they have wrought. After the Great War, it became clear that the old social models had to be rejected to prevent such madness from happening again in the future. Throughout history, people have destroyed each other, banding together based on any distinguishing characteristics, be it place of residence, language, or faith. A grand plan was proposed, unlike anything humanity had ever conceived. The idea was to eliminate each person’s attachment to any particular circle. The First Consul and the New Path party abolished the institution of the state, erasing the concept of compatriot. All places of worship of individual religions were destroyed, and Temples emerged where all known beliefs of the world coexisted under one roof. But the main instrument of shaping the new world became the mandatory resettlement of every person on the planet every three years. Any connections and contacts established in the current place of residence were severed after moving. For this purpose, strict prohibitions were introduced on leaving the current residential zone, on using the internet, telephone, and any other means of long-distance communication. The only unit permitted not to disintegrate after completing another stage (or life) was the immediate family. After the term expired, the Distribution System credited each individual with points based on what they could offer to society in three years. If they were law-abiding citizens, striving to make life around them more beautiful, cleaner, more dignified, then they were rewarded for it in the next life, and they moved up the career ladder, or they got a more spacious home, or a more picturesque place of residence, or kinder neighbours. Conversely, people who failed to bring benefit to society descended lower and lower with each life until they disappeared altogether. Memories of the horrible war, propaganda, and the absolute power of the party made the transition to the new world relatively painless, but there were those who actively opposed this course. Apostates, also known as “ghosts,” were those who managed to avoid resettlement and break free from the cycle of stages. Dealing with these fighters against the system was difficult, and they caused a lot of trouble.

Once upon a time, when Edmund spoke about the New Path in a close circle, he gave an example: to achieve that a Ugandan black man would drink tea on the fifth floor in Kharkiv, listening to music in Kazakh, with the Torah lying on his table, and his thoughts would be half in Chinese. Belonging to a certain group and aggression towards strangers are encoded in us at the genetic level, Edmund said. But what if you take away any opportunity for a person to belong to anywhere? Take away these crutches and tell them: that’s it, there’s no one behind your back anymore, go ahead on your own. Now you are only an individual and no one else, and your home is all humanity. Will a person cope with such freedom, will it be within their power?

Stepping out onto the observation deck, Edmund looks down. He no longer understands whether what he has done is good or bad. Did he save this world or destroy it? And only inflamed eyes eagerly watch as thousands of shining trains, like thousands of burning arrows, pierce the blackness of the night.