Abolished The familiar smells of cloves and cumin lingered as she walked into the cafe. The door swung shut behind her, closing out the calls of the spice-sellers and the bustle of the shoppers, and the little bells hanging from the doorframe tinkled. Behind the counter, a slab of formica that ran from one wall to the other, a heavy-set woman in a white apron looked up. She was sat on a three-legged stool that looked precarious under her weight, reading a brightly-coloured periodical. "What'll it be?" She sounded tired of asking that question although there was no-one in the cafe. "Tea," she said. "No lemon." The cup that appeared on the counter might have been china but was more likely a cheap knock-off from China. A teapot was upended and a stream of golden water splashed out and into the cup, a few drops landing on the counter. The woman grunted and wiped them away with a patterned cloth that had scorch-marks on it, and gestured at the cup. "Thanks." She sat down, and sniffed it. Ginger tea. Not what she'd have chosen, but not bad for a cold day like this. She sipped it, closing her eyes to appreciate the warming taste, and when she opened them again there was a man in a blue-and-green uniform sat opposite her. "Officer," she said, her voice tight in her throat. The religious police were, as everyone knew, everywhere, but it was always a shock when they found you. At least they hadn't woken her up in the middle of the night. "Miss Ta'Wair," he said. "All Lives Matter." "All LIves Matter," she replied. It was a catechism but she still believed in the meaning the words had once held. All lives did matter. "Tell me about the Daebol," he said, rubbing a finger against his cheek. The religious police had to follow specific grooming requirements laid down by the Prophet: they wore fake tan, bleached their hair and strived to maintain a steady body-weight of 239 pounds. "The Daebol do not live," she said. This was also catechism; the wall was there to keep the Daebol out, to stop them from polluting the country and impregnating women, because they did not live. They could not live, in fact, because if they did their lives would matter and they clearly didn't. She wished she couldn't remember a time when their lives had mattered though. "There are no Daebol," said the policeman. She looked at him, her gaze meeting his, and she saw the muscle under his eye twitch. "They do not exist," she said. This must be new doctrine. She looked at him again, realising that he was as uncomfortable telling her this as she was hearing it, and she reached out just a little. "They were abolished? We won the war?" "There was no war," he said, crisply and clearly. Behind the counter the woman, ostensibly reading her magazine, nodded. He lowered his voice. "if there had been a war," he said, "then it would be over by now and we would be celebrating. So there can never have been a war, and we have most certainly won whatever war there wasn't and definitely aren't retreating in panic." She nodded herself this time. "There are no such thing as Daebol," she said obediently. "All Lives Matter." "Wouldn't that be nice?" muttered the policeman. He stood up. "Enjoy your drink, Miss Ta'Wair," he said. "You have a new job today; report to Under-Secretary Munchkin when you arrive at the office." She sipped her tea again, and he managed to disappear in that small motion. Ah yes, with no Daebol she couldn't possibly be working for Department of Daebol Studies. She wondered what she'd be asked to do now, and if she'd find the courage this time to refuse it.
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Abolished
The familiar smells of cloves and cumin lingered as she walked into the cafe. The door swung shut behind her, closing out the calls of the spice-sellers and the bustle of the shoppers, and the little bells hanging from the doorframe tinkled. Behind the counter, a slab of formica that ran from one wall to the other, a heavy-set woman in a white apron looked up. She was sat on a three-legged stool that looked precarious under her weight, reading a brightly-coloured periodical.
"What'll it be?" She sounded tired of asking that question although there was no-one in the cafe.
"Tea," she said. "No lemon."
The cup that appeared on the counter might have been china but was more likely a cheap knock-off from China. A teapot was upended and a stream of golden water splashed out and into the cup, a few drops landing on the counter. The woman grunted and wiped them away with a patterned cloth that had scorch-marks on it, and gestured at the cup.
"Thanks." She sat down, and sniffed it. Ginger tea. Not what she'd have chosen, but not bad for a cold day like this. She sipped it, closing her eyes to appreciate the warming taste, and when she opened them again there was a man in a blue-and-green uniform sat opposite her.
"Officer," she said, her voice tight in her throat. The religious police were, as everyone knew, everywhere, but it was always a shock when they found you. At least they hadn't woken her up in the middle of the night.
"Miss Ta'Wair," he said. "All Lives Matter."
"All LIves Matter," she replied. It was a catechism but she still believed in the meaning the words had once held. All lives did matter.
"Tell me about the Daebol," he said, rubbing a finger against his cheek. The religious police had to follow specific grooming requirements laid down by the Prophet: they wore fake tan, bleached their hair and strived to maintain a steady body-weight of 239 pounds.
"The Daebol do not live," she said. This was also catechism; the wall was there to keep the Daebol out, to stop them from polluting the country and impregnating women, because they did not live. They could not live, in fact, because if they did their lives would matter and they clearly didn't. She wished she couldn't remember a time when their lives had mattered though.
"There are no Daebol," said the policeman. She looked at him, her gaze meeting his, and she saw the muscle under his eye twitch.
"They do not exist," she said. This must be new doctrine. She looked at him again, realising that he was as uncomfortable telling her this as she was hearing it, and she reached out just a little. "They were abolished? We won the war?"
"There was no war," he said, crisply and clearly. Behind the counter the woman, ostensibly reading her magazine, nodded. He lowered his voice. "if there had been a war," he said, "then it would be over by now and we would be celebrating. So there can never have been a war, and we have most certainly won whatever war there wasn't and definitely aren't retreating in panic."
She nodded herself this time. "There are no such thing as Daebol," she said obediently. "All Lives Matter."
"Wouldn't that be nice?" muttered the policeman. He stood up. "Enjoy your drink, Miss Ta'Wair," he said. "You have a new job today; report to Under-Secretary Munchkin when you arrive at the office."
She sipped her tea again, and he managed to disappear in that small motion. Ah yes, with no Daebol she couldn't possibly be working for Department of Daebol Studies. She wondered what she'd be asked to do now, and if she'd find the courage this time to refuse it.
Greg - ooh, this is fascinating stuff. A little unsettling, a little too familiar in places. It works wonderfully.
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