Episode 14

(April 24, 1985)

Karkov offered a tepid salute to the guards, but they did not return it. Instead of hastening to open the doors to the room, they just glowered at him. Ah, new kids. It had been a while since his last visit. Karkov looked at the soldier to his left, a boy of not more than 25, immaculately groomed. It was no less than he expected of the Presidential Guard, especially during the rule of an ex-military man.

He smiled at the soldier, with a gleam in his eyes. Was it time to teach Fervy a little lesson? To the boy’s credit, he did not quail. He either was very brave or very stupid, and it would be fun to see which.

Before Karkov could start anything, an impish officer from the adjoining office hastened over. While shaking his hand, the man took turns apologizing profusely and upbraiding the guards. Karkov did not remember his name and did not care to. A place like this was filled with officers, fungibly irrelevant.

“I thought I saw you pass by,” the man beamed. “It is such a pleasure to have you back, Director. I’m so sorry for the confusion. Please pay them no mind.” He gave the guards a nasty look.

“Not at all,” smiled Karkov. “They just were doing their jobs.”

The men seemed unsure what to say, and the officer rounded on them in fury. It was affected fury of course, but Karkov was amused by the sight of this little man browbeating two hulking soldiers.

“This is the Director of Operational Jurisdiction, you imbeciles,” the officer barked. Even in the newly rebuilt Securitad nobody had commented on the associated acronym, and Karkov despaired of their competence. Or maybe they were afraid of insulting him? He wondered if he was a Stalin to them. He’d much rather be a Lenin, moving history through sheer force of personality. The man probably would have killed just as many as Stalin if he hadn’t died of a stroke or perhaps poison, but it would have been in service of something greater than mere paranoia. This was the problem with mortals; they were fragile in every way. Would Stalin have been Stalin if he thought himself unassailable? It didn’t matter to Karkov. What short-lived meat did only could affect other short-lived meat.

The two soldiers took a moment to process this before looking suitably horrified. Mumbling apologies, they snapped to attention.

Karkov casually waved off their contrition, offering the men a wicked grin. “Do not trouble yourselves over such a thing. I have no doubt that our paths will cross again. Very soon.” He expected they would lose a lot of sleep pondering what he meant by that.

“I’ll announce you myself,” the officer declared with an air of stoic determination. Yes, the grit necessary to walk through a pair of doors and say that somebody had arrived. The man was a true hero of the Republic. Karkov resolved to have this smarmy idiot reassigned to some particularly undesirable post.

It had been a pleasant surprise, all things told. A very pleasant surprise. Unlike the Gracious Leader, the newly minted Fervent Leader actually was quite competent. Karkov supposed this was the difference between a simpering trust fund kid and a hardened veteran.

The hypocrisy of this critique was not lost on him. Karkov himself had been the archetypal spoiled brat. Even if not exceedingly rich by modern standards, he most certainly had enjoyed more pampering than a modern child. Back then, wealth had counted for something. These days money could buy a few toys, but not much else. Rich kids really couldn’t do anything useful with it or maybe just didn’t know how.

Even a modest household in Karkov’s time had been far more opulent in the ways which counted. The difference was service. Servants who knew their place, competent servants who behaved with deference. These days, everybody thought themselves special. Equality didn’t elevate the masses, it just dragged the elite down to join them in the gutter. Worst case, they ended up in a gulag or dead. Best case, they couldn’t find a decent maid. Karkov was well acquainted with both outcomes.

Spoiled rich kids everywhere did share one important trait, however. They tended to be utterly useless. Karkov was a rare exception, but he could not say how much was disposition and how much the benefit of a few thousand years’ experience. He liked to imagine it was proof of an inherently noble nature, but was neither naive nor arrogant enough to actually believe this. What he did know was that he differed from others, even those who should have shared time’s benefits.

Karkov didn’t think this from vanity. It just was an observation, drawn from the countless mortals he had commerce with over the years. The true noble was the product of his environment but did not require it. He would as easily be noble in poverty, though that certainly was not preferable. It was possible that nobility of spirit was more easily discerned in trying circumstances, but this had not been Karkov’s experience. The actions of a peasant were seen by nobody and counted for nothing, however noble or base.

Naturally, there also were nobles amongst the middle class. In modern parlance, such individuals would be considered “sophisticated” or “refined” or “posh” or whatever term of approbation or derision happened to be in vogue. None of these captured the true essence of the term, though. The difference was not one of education or money, but of method. The noble watched and considered and acted. The Great Leader had only watched and acted, and the Gracious Leader had only watched and considered. But the Fervent Leader was cut from Karkov’s cloth.

This aptitude hadn’t been apparent when Karkov first selected him. The choice had been one of expedience, the least unpalatable option. In fact, the man had advocated killing him at the time. But his reasoning had been sound. Given his limited knowledge of the situation, killing Karkov was the sensible thing to do.

Unbeknownst to anyone, Karkov had been privy to the group’s entire deliberative process. Even though the Colonel had imagined their words unintelligible to a foreigner, this was far from the case. True to form, Karkov had watched and considered and acted. He did not fault the soldier for his miscalculation. As his own father used to joke after tricking him some way or another, age and deceit always will win against youth and vigor. The man had thought those were mutually exclusive, but Karkov now had them all.

Of course, using a soldier could go either way. He had been unsure whether Fervy, as he liked to call him, would end up a callous tyrant or an empathetic ruler. A soldier knows the nature of suffering, but also can become inured to it. It didn’t really matter, as long as he proved a useful ruler. But, all else being equal, Karkov did have a care for the innocent people he vicariously governed. He may not have been a benevolent dictator, but he certainly preferred not to be a malevolent one.

Once the sycophant had closed the doors behind them, Karkov broke into a jovial grin. “Hey Fervy!”

The ruler replied dryly, “Please don’t call me that.”

Over the two years since the transition of power, they had become good friends. But that had its downsides. Sometimes Karkov missed the days when a trembling man had awaited death at his hands. The fear and veneration quickly had vanished, less from the dignity of the office than a realization that Karkov had none of the qualities in a master which are most fearsome. He was not paranoid or cruel or impulsive. Even if he held a man’s life in his hands, that life would not be squandered without cause. The cause could be minor, but it would exist.

It was not without reason that Karkov cultivated such an image. To survive palace intrigue one must be perceived as more valuable alive than dead. This principle was basic, and any prudent man was guided by it. The problem was the “perceived” part. Foolish leaders could be manipulated, but that inevitably redounded upon them. The man who could be swayed by you also could be swayed against you. With mercurial or crazy leaders, there were no reliable means of managing their perception. Even the intransigently loyal Barmakids couldn’t endure, and their leader was considered a great one. On the other hand, Karkov was temperate and penetrating. It meant the rarest of things: one could be perceived as valuable by being valuable.

The new leader was quick to observe that Karkov cared little for deference or reverence or any other -ence. The need for such things derived from insecurity, the desire of one man to feel superior to another. And the only reason for a man to wish to feel superior is if he is not intrinsically superior. If he knows that, like all men, he is vulnerable and ephemeral, a pulsing, tenuously-connected oozing corpuscle of tubes and fluids and parts. If his worth derives from the approval or submission of others. If he fears his peers, fears that he has peers, fears that he will stand naked and weak like them, be dragged into the muck once again to struggle without dignity or hope or individuality. That was what made a master scary.

Karkov had no such insecurity. He was dangerous, but not scary. Between him and other men there was an impassable gulf. Nobody could drag him into the muck or keep him there. His power was not granted by others, controlled by them, liable to recall or the failure of men or states. It was inviolable, immutable, eternal. It was his and his alone. There could be no place for insecurity, when perfect security was had. This made him the perfect master for any man who could tolerate having one.

Sometimes Karkov wished for a little less familiarity, though. There was a fine line between familiarity and insolence, and it constantly shifted according to the usage of the times. He was tempted to act capricious just to keep people on their toes but never felt comfortable doing so. Besides, it would undermine his real purpose. He valued utility, not blind obedience.

Fervy remarked Karkov’s uncharacteristic silence. “Are you okay?” he asked.

This was what happened when he allowed others to treat him with familiarity. It wasn’t the lack of awe which bothered Karkov, it was the concern. When a battle-hardened dictator wanted to talk about feelings it could be a sign of danger. Bloodthirsty madmen he could handle, but not the touchy-feely stuff. Was the Fervent Leader getting soft? It would be bad for the country and bad for Karkov and very bad for him.

A good leader was fair but tough. Otherwise there would be a parade of people ready to challenge him for the throne. Well, there always was a parade of people ready to challenge him for the throne. But it would be a quiet parade, hidden in shadow and without much support or hope. Karkov prayed that Fervy just was pretending, strategically trying to get him to open up in order to gain leverage. That he could respect. But Fervy wasn’t the sort. He wasn’t a plotter. He hadn’t even been able to plot the demise of one unarmed man.

Karkov sighed. He hated coming up with new names. There were only so many adjectives which worked well with “Leader.” Maybe he’d just start numbering them instead.

Despite all his grumbling, Karkov was touched by the leader’s concern. It was nice to have somebody who cared, even a short-lived meatsack. As long as it didn’t lead to him having to sack the meatsack. It wasn’t necessary to have a friend, but it wasn’t a burden either. Besides, Karkov really could use somebody to talk to.

“An ex recently has been trying to get back into my life,” he explained.

The dictator grimaced. “I hate when that happens.” Then he laughed and whipped out a bottle of brandy. “Why not let me … hook you up.”

Karkov rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the offer, but I doubt you have anyone to my taste.” He sipped his drink, once again wishing he could feel the alcohol. But his gift wasn’t without cost. Still, he had learned to pretend quite well.

“You like young women, men, boys, girls?” the dictator insisted boisterously. Suddenly he grew quiet, perhaps fearing that he had overstepped.

“All,” Karkov replied distractedly. After a moment he amended this. “None.”

He laughed to himself, and finished his drink. Really? Was this what an ancient immortal needed: a good listener? He had created a dictator for a reason, and it wasn’t emotional support. But was it so bad, having a friend? Karkov had had many friendships, and most ended the same way. Oh well, may as well get on with it.

“There is only one true love for me, I’m afraid,” Karkov remarked. Was, he corrected internally.

“Then, you have someone?” the dictator asked, somewhat intrusively.

Karkov abruptly put down his glass, and Fervy cringed, clearly anticipating a sharp rebuke.

Instead, Karkov looked at the clock on the wall as if just remembering something.

“No.”

“Ah, the ex,” the dictator opined affably as Karkov departed the room. Then he poured himself a double.

As he left the Palace, Karkov decided he really did like Fervy. He was a good man and a good friend, and both were rare. He probably would have to kill him soon. Karkov wondered why he was in such a bad mood all of a sudden. Would killing the entire country make him feel better? No, he wasn’t like that bitch. But of all the people she had killed, there only was one which had mattered. And she had been the first casualty. One true love lost—wasn’t that worth an entire world of hate?

Karkov frowned. Play time was over, back to business. It was time to check in and see how that kid was doing.