A young woman entered the office of the president carrying a worn piece of paper. Communication was under constant surveillance, so citizens sent private messages on paper like they did when the Trumps shut down the internet.
Pencil lead was an expensive resource, but when put to paper it became priceless. Paper was reused until disintegration. Letters were written out of sight of the cameras. Citizens positioned a desk in a corner off the camera’s angle. All the best people had them.
Messages were delivered by hand by messengers who got them to their destinations quickly while citizens watched from their monitors on the static. The only private communication in the capital was by paper and a number-two pencil.
President Taryn had survived unsuccessful assassination attempts and a number of riots at the capital. She had averted a recall election more than once, and she survived boredom by counting. She counted the steps of her guest, the number of times her guest got her name wrong, and each tap of her fingernail on the desk as the woman spoke.
The young woman began her story before the door had closed.
Taryn interrupted her words with a song, designed to give the young woman a chance to breathe and calm down. Nearly everyone who came to see her was desperate.
“Please have a seat,” she said, cutting the woman off before counting three, four, and a half-turn of five as she sat. And then the president sang, “It’s so niice to meeeet yooou.” And then she smiled.
The smile, the song, the room, the bike—it all caught the woman by surprise. But mostly she was struck by how much she wanted to touch that beautiful desk.
“It’s mahogany,” the president answered her unuttered question.
Every few months someone would complain to the president about the couriers. The messengers. The secret communications. She had no control over them. That was the point. In a society where nearly nothing was private, these little notes passed between friends or lovers were a source of anxiety and paranoia. Messengers were highly paid for their discretion and their speed, but were often hijacked and even killed for their letters.
A former lover would intercept a courier. Not an easy task. They never took the rail, the monorail system that wound its way throughout the city. They used the hoverways, personal transports that hung six to eight feet off the ground and cost about a week’s work on a bike just to charge.
The president needed to do something. The woman started crying. What was that—five minutes in and she was already crying? It wasn’t even close to the record. “You need to protect the letters!” No, wait—that wasn’t what this one wanted.
“You need to stop the letters!” That wasn’t it either.
“You need to see these letters.”
What? Oh great, it was one of those. The president fixed her gaze into a listening smirk—not a smile, not a frown, but a knowing, understanding smirk. She had perfected it. It was a Taryn special. She leaned back in her high-back desk chair and listened to the young woman read someone else’s letter. A jilted lover. Her former had found another. Or something or other.
“The government needs to do something,” she finished with a flourish.
The ones who made it to the president’s presence frequently felt that she could secretly wave a magic wand and bring their loved one’s love back, not just their bodies. She could not.
She could offer them a white linen square, however. There was an ornate container of them on the far end of her beautiful mahogany—please don’t get tears on my—desk, and a wicker receptacle at the door—that isn’t a souvenir—for you to place them as you leave.
“What exactly do you want us to do?” she asked, switching from the personal tense to the royal we she often used for official-sounding, presidential, yet impatient inquiries.
“I want her dead.”
So kill her yourself, the president wanted to blurt out, but knew she couldn’t condone murder even though everybody did it… especially her. Except when she did it, it was called execution. And when they did it to her it was called assassination, but it was all the same thing: a temporary death.
“Let me deliberate,” she said as she rose from her chair and exited through a nearly hidden door made out of a bookcase. It swung into a smaller chamber. Madge was already there.
She spoke from frustration. “The first one, and I’m already ready to wring her freaking neck.”
“You know what she reminds me of?” Madge asked whimsically, in her spousal voice.
“Please tell me.”
“She reminds me of the old days when the government would deliver paper messages across the country,” she mused.
“Imagine the government delivering correspondence,” Taryn joked. “That’s preposterous.” And then she laughed and said, “Thank you.” She kissed her wife and was ready to rule.
Taryn emerged from her secret door to find the woman waiting patiently, her eyes dry as a bone. Perhaps just speaking pain to power was enough. But asking the government for a revenge kill… that was too much.
“So listen.” The president spoke with a commanding voice. She was no longer smiling, and she was definitely not singing. “I’m not going to execute you for stealing from a courier. I’m guessing she’s dead.”
The woman opened her mouth, but the president tilted her head back quickly and slightly and glared, indicating that she should not be talking. She continued.
“So I’m also not going to execute you for that murder,” she said, counting off the many ways the woman would not die on her fingers. “I’m not going to execute you for wasting my time with your love life,” she continued.
Madge entered through the front door and not the secret door, having left the private chamber through another exit… I guess. Unless there were more Madges than we were led to believe.
The president had three fingers extended and was going for a fourth.
“I’m not going to execute you for petitioning the government to commit petty murder,” she said. She was on a roll. She had a look in her eyes like there were a lot more to come.
Madge came to the woman’s side and spoke quietly. “I would leave now before she thinks of something she will execute you for.”
The woman got up and quickly headed to the door, having only just become aware that her life was in danger.
Taryn spoke louder as the woman was leaving. “And I’m not going to execute you for wasting my wife’s time!” She was practically yelling as the woman went out the door. “I’M SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS.” The door slammed.
Madge looked at her disappointedly. “That was not presidential.”
“No. But it was fun.” She took a deep breath. “Give me a second before you send the next one in.” ||
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