Closing Moves, Part 2
Takomaan
The sun dipped below the mountains, their long shadows engulfing the village in shade. As the day wound day, the villagers made their way to the dining
ger in the central square. Alexandra’s group sat at one of the tables to discuss their plan over plates of lamb.
“Thanks for the meal!” Gulichi said. “My compliments to the chef, as always. Dig in, guys!” Without hesitating, he grabbed the meat with his hands, letting the juices get all over, and stuffed it into his mouth. “That hit the spot! Oh, how I missed you,
khorkhog!”
Next to him, Leyla picked up one piece of meat, but she instantly dropped it. “Ow! Too damn hot!”
“Yeah, that happened to me the first time I ate
khorkhog as a kid.” Gulichi slowed down his eating. “The trick is to hold the bone. That’s easier to hold, in my experience.”
Leyla cautiously picked up the meat again, this time by the bone. “Like that?”
Gulichi nodded. “Yep. Try it now!”
Leyla put the meat in her mouth. As soon as it hit her tongue, Gulichi saw her expression change. She closed her eyes and smiled, savoring each bite.
Just like me back then.
“I…I’ve never eaten meat this good before!” Leyla said. “What did you put in it?”
“Nothing, we let it cook for an hour or so in the jug with some rocks to suck out the fat,” Gulichi said, “No need for spices or sauces, just as Father Tengri likes it.”
“Ahem.” Samir cleared his throat. “We have a mission to discuss?”
“Oh, right,” Gulichi said, “Go ahead.”
“So, Magnus and I surveyed the island earlier today, and I drew myself a map.” Alexandra opened a notebook to show them a pencil sketch. “We found few signs of people being on the island before, which tracks with the elder’s statement. There are shrubs and plants and roots all over the place, with barely anywhere to step.”
“So how do we find this…Sampo thing?” Leyla said.
“Our legend specifically says the Sampo was buried on the island, inside the forge that made it,” Gulichi said, “So we should be looking underground. Hopefully not underwater as well.”
“Which was why I specifically brought a portable ground-penetrating radar unit,” Alexandra said.
“I got a high-power metal detector too,” Magnus said, “If the stuff’s made of metal, we’ll see it. And then Samir comes in.”
“I brought some digging equipment,” Samir said, “The helicopter can airlift it to us on the island, but we need to clear an area for it first.”
“We’ve got tools for that in the militia storage,” Gulichi said, “Intended for forest maintenance, but we can use it for the island. Though I’m not keen on explaining this to Ol’ Piru.”
“I’m sure Commander Kettu will understand,” Leyla said.
“Yeah, I think he will,” Samir said.
“That’s not reassuring!” Gulichi said.
“Okay, then,” Alexandra said, “Can you get the tools first thing tomorrow morning? I was thinking of starting work as soon as we can.”
“Alexandra, I can’t wake up that early,” Magnus complained.
“Well, go to sleep earlier tonight,” Alexandra said, “The elder gave us a deadline, so we have to make the most of our time.”
“Speaking of sleep, we should really get to eating!” Gulichi picked up another bone. “Your dinner’s getting cold. Can’t work tomorrow on an empty stomach.”
“Alright, then,” Alexandra said, “Not like we can work right now. Let’s eat!”
They continued eating their
khorkhog.
Isfahan
The door creaked open, and light spilled into the dark cell. Alex cautiously opened his eyes, seeing two guards standing in the doorway. One approached Josh and unchained him from the wall, while the other kept his gun pointed at Alex.
“What’s going on?” Alex said.
“You don’t need to know, criminal,” the first guard said.
“Oh, cut it out.” The second guard rolled his eyes. “What difference is it going to make?”
“It’s classified information.”
“But he’s going to…you know.”
Alex had an idea what they were getting at.
“That’s true,” the first guard said, “We
were going to inform him, weren’t we?”
“I totally forgot about that,” the sceond guard said, “Listen up, criminal. Mozaffar’s decided to make things easier for all of us. You’re going to be executed tomorrow.”
“What?!” Alex’s suspicions were spot on, but it was still shocking to hear. “Where’s my trial? Where’s my lawyer?”
“You were tried
in absentia by a military court, which has found you guilty on all charges. You do not get a lawyer, as you are considered an enemy combatant.”
“That makes no sense! Persian law states—”
“The regent understands that some liberties have to be suspended in times of total war, for the survival of the nation and the long-term preservation of our rights. You are an enemy combatant, so you do not deserve the same rights as Persian citizens.”
Alex sighed. “I can’t believe it. You guys are as bad as Jerusalem, you know that?”
“At least we didn’t nuke our own cities twice and kill over a billion people, like you did.”
“How many times do I have to say this? I’m not with Jerusalem! I fled that damn regime!”
“Makes no difference, you still tried to turn us into Jerusalem.” The first guard helped Josh to his feet and snapped handcuffs on his wrists. “Prisoner is secure for transport.”
“Where are you taking him?” Alex asked.
“Since you’re going to be executed, there’s no harm in telling you, I guess,” the first guard said, “We’re prepping him for surgery. Theodor said he could extract the data on his Panopticon, so Mozaffar wants it done ASAP.”
“You can’t be goddamn serious!” Alex hadn’t as much as moved, but his raised voice only got him a kick to the gut, knocking him onto his cot. “You’re letting
him and Theodor go but not me?! You let out a literal war criminal and an actual regent of Jerusalem, but
I’m the one you’re executing? The civilian scientist who
fled Jerusalem five years ago?! How messed up is this country?!”
“It’s not messed up, it’s pragmatism,” the second guard said, “The Panopticons have valuable data that will help incriminate and convict future Jerusalemite war criminals, as well as provide the Artesh with intel on Crusader tactics. And Regent Tesla has been nothing but helpful in providing all of his expertise in technology and Jerusalem’s inner politics. You, on the other hand, are a criminal and a murderer, and the people demand justice be served. We intend to provide that justice.”
“You…monsters…” Alex panted. “How could you…”
“Cry all you want. Because this will be the last time you can.” The guards escorted Josh out and slammed the door behind them, leaving Alex alone in the darkness.
Alex stared at the rusty metal door for what seemed like a whole minute, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Then he slammed a fist against the cot. “DAMN YOU! DAMN YOU ALL!”
And he thought his week was going well.
---
“With forty percent of examiner assessments calculated, Royal Persia News is ready to declare Mazandaran has overwhelmingly chosen…”
“…with the last results having been processed an hour ago, Simurgh Media is calling Yazd for…”
“With half of all assessments received in Fars, we can conclude that the victor here is…”
“…Collection of assessments has concluded in Tehran Province.”
“…Assessments are still being processed in Qom and Hormozgan.”
“The port city of Bandar Lengeh has suspended assessment collection in the wake of the Chinese missile strikes earlier today, which resulted in five dead. However, enough assessments have been processed that National Broadcasting can safely declare the city for…”
It was examination night in Isfahan. As in all other meritocracies, the selected examiners were provided with their materials at the beginning of the month—profiles, platforms, backgrounds, public opinion polls, a nonpartisan collection of relevant news articles, and anything else needed to form the most accurate and comprehensive profile of every candidate. The examiners then spent the rest of the month filling out forms where they chose the candidate they felt was best qualified. It wasn’t as simple as just writing a name. To prevent people from skipping the profiles and just choosing based on popularity, there was a short randomized quiz on certain facts listed in the profile, which examiners had to pass in order for their assessment to be considered valid. The rest of the assessment was also like, just as the overall name suggested, an exam. Multiple choice questions aimed to quantify each candidate’s proficiency and experience in certain fields, also randomized to prevent other examiners from leaking correct answers. Short answer questions were to show how a candidate’s platform resonated on a personal level. There was an optional essay section at the end which was given extra weight, where examiners were encouraged to write their own thoughts.
Once the assessment was completed, it was sent in for processing. Persia’s Ministry of Qualifications operated similar to the Roman Bureau of Qualifications. However, instead of the Reich’s system of two sub-bureaus encouraged to compete against each other as a way of incentivizing impartiality, the Persian ministry had each assessment be stripped of all examiners’ identifying information, looked over and approved by two different civil servants with no ties to each other, and then scanned through a computer which fed the multiple choice answers through an impartial algorithm. As a result, the Ministry of Qualifications was the largest Persian government agency, with its assessment processing duties taking up a significant portion of the budget due to the large amount of personnel and equipment involved. Another large portion of the budget was strictly devoted to education, to ensure that all potential examiners had the knowledge (and attention spans) to properly assess candidates. For foreign observers coming from democracies like Ryukyu and democratic-meritocratic hybrids like Abyssinia, all this would probably seem like a needlessly complicated and expensive method of choosing political leaders that made no sense. Asking the average examiner to take what amounted to a comprehensive high school-level civics test just to choose the next chancellor, instead of just giving them a list and getting it done in a day? If not for the Reich being the premier example of meritocracy in action, the whole of the free world would probably have adopted democracy. There still was a chance for that, now that Jerusalem had finished picking the Reich’s corpse clean.
“Mozaffar.”
“Mozaffar.”
“Mozaffar.”
“Mozaffar.”
A radio tuned to Royal Persia News was set up on his desk, while his phone was playing a stream from Simurgh Media, and a TV in the corner played ongoing coverage by National Broadcasting. They were all saying his name now. They threw it out so often that it was starting to lose all meaning in his mind. M-o-z-a-f-f-a-r. What a funny string of letters put together, assigned to his identity. Or rather, to the identity the people believed in. He felt like he was being pulled in two directions. There was the Murad Mozaffar that he personally knew. Murad the patriot. Murad the historian. Murad the boy Abbas Jaberi saw potential in. And then there was the Murad Mozaffar the people had created. Mozaffar the nationalist. Mozaffar the military mastermind. Mozaffar the war hero. Mozaffar, the man who crushed Jerusalem and sent it into its current death spiral. Mozaffar, who slew one Regent, captured another, and slaughtered over a hundred thousand Crusaders in Persia. Mozaffar, he who would remake Persia in his own image and lead it to its rightful place in the sun, as the leader of the free world, liberating humanity from the totalitarian shackles of Roman and Chinese hegemony.
That Mozaffar didn’t exist, and yet he was due to become chancellor on July 1, once the processing was completed tomorrow.
So where was Murad? Who was Murad? Did he ever exist? He looked down at himself. His trembling hand held a glass of wine, half empty. His usual business suit was slightly creased, its tie slightly askew. His hair was starting to fall into his eyes—he wanted to get a haircut, but Parviz had always said it could be put off as long as he had a campaign to run. He noticed a few gray strands here and there. Too many for his age. Perhaps the stress was getting to him. One arm was sore, from all of the waving he did to supporters at an event earlier today. Tomorrow, it would be his legs, as he had a victory gala to attend. Yes, they already had a victory gala organized since last month, and it had already been fully booked three weeks ago. All that stuff on the news? All that procedure by the Ministry of Qualifications? That needlessly complicated and expensive exam? That was a godsdamn waste of money, spent to maintain the illusion that the man known as Mozaffar, who never existed, was chosen by the people as the most qualified man to run Persia. When in reality, they chose based on fear and hatred and anger. They chose based on a name repeated thousands of times. Based on platitudes and fiery speeches that gave them an outlet for their hate, a direction for it. Based on the suffering of those less fortunate than them. They may have gone the legally required steps for the meritocratic process, but it lacked the spirit. They were poised to crown a man who never truly existed outside their hearts—their scared and worried hearts, yearning for a parent to put themselves at ease—a man who would no doubt cast aside the shahbanu herself as yet another pawn to be sacrificed on the altar of progress. A progress that would be paid for in blood and not even lead anywhere meaningful.
He had to stop it. But he couldn’t. Mozaffar was beloved by millions across Persia. Murad was known only to himself, kept under lock and key. He had no influence. He had no power. He sat in the chair, but it was Mozaffar’s. It was as if he was a captive in his own body, like all those old stories with mind control or what the Panopticon reports said, according to Parviz. As another example of his powerlessness, all contact with Theodor Tesla was done through Parviz. He had never met the man in person. There was a certain irony in Mozaffar being known as the man who captured one of Jerusalem’s Regents, but also freeing him and employing his services. An irony that only Murad saw. What was the country coming to? All of Mozaffar’s talk about the Romans becoming a new aristocracy over Persians, and yet here they were, inviting an actual Regent into Ali Qapu just three months after that same man attempted to storm that same building by force. Was Murad the only one who saw through the lies? The dishonor they were committing? Mozaffar always said Persia was a nation of laws. But Murad knew it was also a nation of honor. There was no honor in what they had done.
Oh, merciful Ahura Mazda, please forgive us for tarnishing your name in our march into Duzakh.
So who was Murad, if not Mozaffar? Who was he really? And what could he do, he asked himself. It had been almost three months since Operation Slaying of Zahhak. That name was something only Mozaffar could come up with, but he could only have known that through Murad. As much as he had made himself out to be the victim, he was still to blame. He did draw up the plans for the operation. He did withhold them from the Roman forces, Operation Huma, and the shahbanu herself. That was all his doing. And after the battle, he went along with everything Parviz Zakaria and Javid Afshar and the others suggested. His signature was on the order confining Wilhelmina and Gunduz to the hospital and imposing the total and indefinite lockdown on them. He had even given it a name, Operation Gilded Birdcage. He was complicit in that. Everything he did as regent was done out of his own free will. There were plenty of times he could have resisted. Called out and denounced Parviz on live television. Dismissed Afshar from his post. Relieved the soldiers permanently stationed at that hospital. Worked with Uncle Abbas to stop the rising tide of xenophobia. There was so much he could have done differently about the deportation of the Romans. But in the end, he and Abbas caved. They signed their names to the order. Mozaffar went on television and smiled victoriously as he consigned twenty thousand Romans to death in the wastes of Mesopotamia, while Murad cried in the back of his mind as he learned that some things could never be forgiven. Parviz’s involvement was not relevant. The fact was, he was as complicit as the others. In light of that, he didn’t want forgiveness. He didn’t want redemption. He didn’t want people to feel sorry for him. He deserved it. Mozaffar was a monster, and Murad was right there with him. They were the same person in the end. The people shaped Mozaffar into a monster as bad as Jerusalem and condemned Murad to a fate he never wanted, a destiny he wanted no part in. The destiny of a villain.
A villain… He focused on those words. Villain, like Angra Mainyu, the wicked one. He had long since been forced onto the path of evil by everyone around him. It mattered not that he had been forced to begin with. He had gone down this path too far to back out, so as much as he did not want to admit it, he had come to choose it of his own free will. Perhaps it was his destiny to be consigned to the fires of Duzakh, along with all those who put him there.
Angra Mainyu… He dwelled on that for a moment. A thought emerged.
The wicked one is always opposed by Ahura Mazda, he who embodies all that is good. If I am akin to the wicked one, then perhaps there is one who embodies the benevolent one. Or perhaps more than one.
But what if they had not yet emerged? What if they had, but they lacked the power and the support they needed to defeat him? Then there was only one thing left to do: become the villain who would inspire a hero to rise up against them, as the Angra Mainyu to their Ahura Mazda, or the Zahhak to their Kaveh. A villain so cruel and harsh that a hero had no choice but to rise up. If that was what it took to save Persia from the hell he and the people had willingly walked into, then he would gladly bear the burden. He had always been a patriot, and what better way to serve the nation than by sacrificing himself to save it, just as the soldiers of the Artesh did?
If the people want Mozaffar, I’ll give them Mozaffar. You better be ready, Julian Anniona.