Obsidian is a novel I have been writing recently in response to a Henry David Thoreau quote I read in Civil Disobedience. The quote runs along the line of man running itself in a government-free utopia. So with that idea in mind, with a science fiction twist mixed with some psychological drama, I present Obsidian. This is my view of a world without a strong government, and how the people still seem to want to control. I can't explain, so just read.
I.
It was a day like any other. The clouds clung high in the sky as if they were afraid of the ground. The moisture in the air was so omnipotent that one would think rain could fall at any moment – but it didn't. No rain would fall on this day.
The oaks and sycamores waved in the gentle breeze, and with them a seldom leaf would depart from it and was sent fluttering in the wind. The people that dashed to and fro held their coats close to keep warm, and walked briskly to maintain a steady body temperature.
A huge mass of people was forming outside the Syndicate of Crime Prevention on that day. The crowd mumbled quietly, awaiting the arrival of the Syndicate Commissioner. They slowly swayed to fight off the impeaching cold, small puffs of stuttered breath exasperated into the chilled air. They were curious. They were curious above all else to hear the Crime Prevention Status, their monthly dose of morphine.
The Commissioner stepped out onto the platform anterior of the massive stone building and shook hands with some of the city officials who had already been there waiting. He approached the microphone stand, and with quick cackling cough he hushed the crowd and began to speak.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, you are all gathered here on this frosty November morning to hear the Crime Prevention Status of New York City. I am thankful to say that the month of November has been one of our most successful yet. We have lowered the crime rate from seventy-two percent to seventy-one and one-third percent!â€
And with this the crowed cheered voraciously, shouting for more. They fed themselves with any good news. This was of course, their morphine.
“With the use of Old World interrogation techniques we have located several Mob storehouses, and thus have acquired over three million credits of stolen munitions. Your streets are safer now that we have killed half of the Mob's supplies!â€
They laughed and cheered harmoniously. They pumped their fists in the air and waved them about with glee. They shouted SCP! SCP! SCP! It sounded like a basketball game, rather than a political conference.
“We predict in the next month of December we will have narrowed the Mob down to a few puny crooks and peddlers. And by the new year, my friends, the Northfield Crime Family should be completely eradicated!â€
More cheers. The doped masses yelled and whooped in an opiated mass. More! They shouted. More! Liberation! Liberation! They almost danced; the crowd seemed to flow like waves as the mass of exuberant bodies swayed and jeered.
“I will now open the floor for questions. You all know the drill,†he leaned against the podium and looked out into the swarm of junkies. “Who's first?â€
They all shut up. They knew a good few had questions and it was polite to hush up for them. Besides what else could go wrong? They were in a painless state of bliss, a pure state of systematic protection. One man raised his hand out from atop the opiated mass, and shouted,â€What have you done about the recent robberies in Brooklyn, Commissioner?â€
“The recent heists in Brooklyn are merely a series of small armed robberies. We believe them to be related to one of the local gangs. If anyone has information on the gangs in Brooklyn, it could prove useful. Just submit your information in writing to the Office of Samuel Waters, in the Center for Evidence and Information. Thanks for the question-,†he paused closing his eyes, and upon opening them blinked rapidly, when he was done he continued,â€Jeremiah.â€
A couple more cheers. They loved how the Commissioner knew every one's name. They didn't know how he did, but he did and that elated them. More morphine dripped into their already coated blood streams. Their smiles were more like forced muscle spasms now.
Thomas Gildhertz stood staring at the ground's intricate patterns. To him they seemed infinite in complete randomness. After a quick silence he came to his senses. He brought is heavy head up and gave the commissioner a glare. He mumbled to himself to just do it, to just ask, the commissioner would be happy to oblige.
So he did it. He rose his hand high into the frosty air, protruding the bobbing heads of dazed and confused. In articulate language he spoke over a cool wind that came rushing by,â€Commissioner, what news do you have on the recent killings of Sarah Wylder and Jeff Simmons?â€
The man at the podium seemed to tense up. His teeth gritted down, his face began to bloom in a placid pink blush. The rest didn't notice – they were far too numb to realize their Father was choking.
“Well,†he finally said, eyes fluttering rapidly,â€Actually, Mr. Gildhertz, we have no leads and all information on that case is classified at this point.â€
He made a mistake. He said the wrong words. These words penetrated the crowd like a blast of smelling salt and awakened them in an instant. Did he say “classified�! Classification was an Old World practice of control. He must not have said it, they thought. But he did. He did, and they knew it. They were questionable but not stupid, they had heard it and they stared him down.
The awakener suddenly realized what he had said and spoke in a form of blatant fear,â€There will be no further questions at this time!†And with that he bolted from the platform back into the grimy stone building of the Syndicate of Crime Prevention.
Thank you for interest in Obsidian.
It was a day like any other. The clouds clung high in the sky as if they were afraid of the ground. The moisture in the air was so omnipotent that one would think rain could fall at any moment – but it didn't. No rain would fall on this day.
The oaks and sycamores waved in the gentle breeze, and with them a seldom leaf would depart from it and was sent fluttering in the wind. The people that dashed to and fro held their coats close to keep warm, and walked briskly to maintain a steady body temperature.
A huge mass of people was forming outside the Syndicate of Crime Prevention on that day. The crowd mumbled quietly, awaiting the arrival of the Syndicate Commissioner. They slowly swayed to fight off the impeaching cold, small puffs of stuttered breath exasperated into the chilled air. They were curious. They were curious above all else to hear the Crime Prevention Status, their monthly dose of morphine.
The Commissioner stepped out onto the platform anterior of the massive stone building and shook hands with some of the city officials who had already been there waiting. He approached the microphone stand, and with quick cackling cough he hushed the crowd and began to speak.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, you are all gathered here on this frosty November morning to hear the Crime Prevention Status of New York City. I am thankful to say that the month of November has been one of our most successful yet. We have lowered the crime rate from seventy-two percent to seventy-one and one-third percent!â€
And with this the crowed cheered voraciously, shouting for more. They fed themselves with any good news. This was of course, their morphine.
“With the use of Old World interrogation techniques we have located several Mob storehouses, and thus have acquired over three million credits of stolen munitions. Your streets are safer now that we have killed half of the Mob's supplies!â€
They laughed and cheered harmoniously. They pumped their fists in the air and waved them about with glee. They shouted SCP! SCP! SCP! It sounded like a basketball game, rather than a political conference.
“We predict in the next month of December we will have narrowed the Mob down to a few puny crooks and peddlers. And by the new year, my friends, the Northfield Crime Family should be completely eradicated!â€
More cheers. The doped masses yelled and whooped in an opiated mass. More! They shouted. More! Liberation! Liberation! They almost danced; the crowd seemed to flow like waves as the mass of exuberant bodies swayed and jeered.
“I will now open the floor for questions. You all know the drill,†he leaned against the podium and looked out into the swarm of junkies. “Who's first?â€
They all shut up. They knew a good few had questions and it was polite to hush up for them. Besides what else could go wrong? They were in a painless state of bliss, a pure state of systematic protection. One man raised his hand out from atop the opiated mass, and shouted,â€What have you done about the recent robberies in Brooklyn, Commissioner?â€
“The recent heists in Brooklyn are merely a series of small armed robberies. We believe them to be related to one of the local gangs. If anyone has information on the gangs in Brooklyn, it could prove useful. Just submit your information in writing to the Office of Samuel Waters, in the Center for Evidence and Information. Thanks for the question-,†he paused closing his eyes, and upon opening them blinked rapidly, when he was done he continued,â€Jeremiah.â€
A couple more cheers. They loved how the Commissioner knew every one's name. They didn't know how he did, but he did and that elated them. More morphine dripped into their already coated blood streams. Their smiles were more like forced muscle spasms now.
Thomas Gildhertz stood staring at the ground's intricate patterns. To him they seemed infinite in complete randomness. After a quick silence he came to his senses. He brought is heavy head up and gave the commissioner a glare. He mumbled to himself to just do it, to just ask, the commissioner would be happy to oblige.
So he did it. He rose his hand high into the frosty air, protruding the bobbing heads of dazed and confused. In articulate language he spoke over a cool wind that came rushing by,â€Commissioner, what news do you have on the recent killings of Sarah Wylder and Jeff Simmons?â€
The man at the podium seemed to tense up. His teeth gritted down, his face began to bloom in a placid pink blush. The rest didn't notice – they were far too numb to realize their Father was choking.
“Well,†he finally said, eyes fluttering rapidly,â€Actually, Mr. Gildhertz, we have no leads and all information on that case is classified at this point.â€
He made a mistake. He said the wrong words. These words penetrated the crowd like a blast of smelling salt and awakened them in an instant. Did he say “classified�! Classification was an Old World practice of control. He must not have said it, they thought. But he did. He did, and they knew it. They were questionable but not stupid, they had heard it and they stared him down.
The awakener suddenly realized what he had said and spoke in a form of blatant fear,â€There will be no further questions at this time!†And with that he bolted from the platform back into the grimy stone building of the Syndicate of Crime Prevention.
Thank you for interest in Obsidian.
