The Boar

If they had only known how unhappy he'd been for the last dozen years, none of this would have been necessary. The vigils every night, and the young people wriggling over the gates like seals, only to be dragged onto the grounds and beaten.

He had tried to put an end to that, at least, but the Minsiter of Internal Affairs had said that would be the gravest mistake of all. Any softening, any loosening of the hold on power, would be taken for weakness. And when your enemy found a weakness in you, he feasted on it and became stronger. He talked like he was Minister of War, always drunk with metaphor.

It bothered him no end. He was weak. And tired. This was wrong. This. Everything. The young men at the gates. What they said about him in the dissident newspapers that grew like mushrooms. His aide-de-camp brought them home after his clandestine trips through the darkened streets. "The Boar" they called him, and savaged him with caricatures. Always, tusks curved from his jaw. He looked at himself in the mirror every time to try and find it. Hoping to find why they hated him so much.

His father had dismantled much of the previous century's oppressive apparatus. And hadn't he undone most of the rest? He would be remembered as the weakest of them all, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough. They hated him with their blood, with centuries of grievances pushing them on, choking them full of bitter wind. When the crowds had first gathered outside the palace three months ago, he had tried talking to them, from the balconies. They jeered and spat. They didn't care what he had to say. Internal Affairs wouldn't let him say anything now. "Strength is your ally." More ancient wisdom. Fire couldn't help a drowning man.

The Therapist

She wanted him to talk about his childhood again. It wasn't that she thought childhood was especially meaningful. She wasn't that kind of therapist. It's just that after all the testing, she knew that his peritemporal region was hot when he talked about his childhood. Perhaps because of the memories he reassembled. Didn't matter. She didn't care why. All she needed to know was that the region was hot, densely active. And that meant it was a gateway.

While he leaned back on the couch, his head almost lost in the cheerful pillows, she asked him about elementary school. The PET-cap was feeding his brain's innermost responses to the computer mounted on the arm of her chair. The process was seamless and simple. She could have told him the close-fitting cap was designed to enhance relaxation. And the three-inch square monitor in front of her? An appointment planner. "It's not even on."

He started to talk about some school play, and being chosen for a smaller part than his better-dressed, more well-liked rival. The activity on the monitor was ferocious. She had tapped a rich vein. The Neural Index was already up to 6.5, and he'd only been talking for a couple minutes. The oranges and yellows on the monitor painted a picture of intense involvement with the memory. As soon as the first reds appeared and the NI topped 8.0, she'd have him. And then administering the drug was all that remained. The PET-cap contained three microscopic PTUs—particle transfer units. The drug would be forced through the scalp without him even knowing it.

His voice became thick and slow. He was crying. Should she have been listening? The night of the play. He forgot his lines, froze in front of parents and teachers. Oranges crowded out yellows. Neural Index, 7.9. He was almost ready. She found the button on the underside of the armrest and rested her finger on it.