“Tell me a lie about San Castelano,” the Viceroy said. The room was windowless, and the walls were constructed out of some oddly luminescent white material. Vector, still in his Truth Center jumpsuit and manacled to the table, sensed a trap.
“A lie, sir?”
“That’s right. And it better be a good one. Remember: I’ve heard them all.”
Vector hesitated, but only for a second. He was already a prisoner, so what did he have to lose? Besides, the man across from him was widely considered one of the two most powerful people on the planet, so it made sense to do what he asked. “Um, okay. Well, I assume you’ve seen their new army uniforms?”
The Viceroy groaned in disgust. “I have indeed. Garish affairs, ornamented with superfluous patches of leather, flaunting their surplus of livestock.”
“Ah,” Vector said, “but it is not the humble cow which decorates those jackets, sir, but your own humble citizenry.”
“Come again?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. Agents of San Castelano patrol the borders at night, snatching the young, the feeble, and the simple-minded from their villages. They flay the skin and dye it, and then they staple it to their shoulders, in an affront to you.”
The Viceroy was clearly disturbed by this. “I…I almost believed that. Interesting. Go on, continue. Tell me a lie about their ruler, Chancellor Pelltrix.”
Vector was picking up steam. There would be no stopping him now, for better or worse. “He’s a compulsive masturbator.”
“What? No!” the Viceroy squealed with delight.
“Oh, yes,” Vector continued. “He can’t help himself. He indulges seventy, maybe eighty times a day, though by midnight, it comes out thin and clear, like water, or sometimes not at all, the sandpaper-dry heaves of a hungover drunkard after a morning of heavy puking. He claims it helps him make more level-headed decisions, and I suppose he was right, at first. The problem is that he has caught up with himself. Anxiety, you see, is not unlike a virus. And Pelltrix, through his incessant wanking, has only managed to inoculate himself against relaxation. He is now more anxious than ever, but he can no longer control his urges. It’s a vicious cycle.”
The Viceroy, who had been laughing this entire time, wiped a tear from his eye. “You know, uh, Vector, is it?”
“Yes, sir. Ptolemy Vector.”
“You know, Mr. Vector, out of all the people I have spoken with in the past few days, your lies are by far the most unbelievable.”
“So unbelievable,” Vector said, “that they must be true.”
The Viceroy nodded. Vector got the job.
Like every accomplished liar, Vector was actually nothing more than an authority on truth. He simply understood the bizarre ways in which reality manifested itself. In San Castelano, they had a phrase: truth is sometimes stranger than fiction. Vector found this to be grossly inaccurate. Truth, he knew, was always stranger than fiction, one hundred percent of the time, since it required neither narrative symmetry nor moral imperative. The truth owed nothing to Homer or Joseph Campbell. It was just a bunch of stuff that happened. A good rule to live by: if something makes sense, you don’t know the half of it.
It was a crime to lie in the Republic of Filchgard. A very serious crime, in fact, one punishable by a wide array of fates, ranging from imprisonment in the Truth Center to full-blown erasure. Vector had been picked up a week prior, for denying his San Castelanian heritage. “You claim not to be from there,” the detector had said, “but one look at your face tells me you’re lying.”
True, Vector was in fact from San Castelano, and he did indeed share the slightly darker complexion of his brethren, but he did not consider his denial to be an outright lie, exactly. He hadn’t set foot in his homeland in nearly a decade, and he had no intention of ever doing so again. He didn’t consider himself Filchgardian, but he held no allegiance to their neighbors on the other side of the wall. But, laws being laws, Vector was arrested and sentenced to a month in the Truth Center. He only ended up serving five days, but that was torture enough, as far as he was concerned. He had been forced to lie on his back, with electrodes pasted to his forehead, and read verifiable facts into a microphone for twenty hours a day. He was just on the verge of hallucinating when he heard that he had a meeting with the Viceroy. It seemed Filchgard was in need of a liar.
It was called “The Tepid Entanglement.” The name was the Chancellor’s, and it was just about the only thing the two countries agreed upon. Tepid, because very little actual violence had taken place, and entanglement, because it was damn complicated. Turns out it’s harder to fight a war without fighting than it would be to fight, if that makes sense. You have all the logistical nightmares of war, without the benefit of blowing up the other side’s people and equipment. In a tepid entanglement, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.
It was no different from most significant moments in history, in that it was primarily a problem of words and food. The will of the people is always important, but when you’re trying to convince your citizens to go hungry so that you may feed an army which has no intention of doing battle, public opinion becomes a more valuable currency than little pieces of paper with your grandmother’s wrinkled face on them. The Filchgardians had, until now, supported their government, but the Viceroy knew that everything had its limit. San Castelano had recently taken to setting up troops at the border and turning back any shipment of goods meant for the Republic, despite their own economic woes. When stomachs rumble, people get grumpy, and then it’s only a matter of time before someone realizes that if you put a rag inside a half-full bottle of grain alcohol and set it on fire, you can burn down buildings from a relatively safe distance.
So, the Viceroy got an idea (to be fair, it was his wife’s idea, but he had, for some reason, left that part out of the briefing): send someone south of the wall with the purpose of destabilizing San Castelano through the telling of lies. Why try to contain a revolution in your own house when you could just toss it into your neighbor’s back yard? Even Vector had to admit it was a pretty good plan. He knew that the government of San Castelano was less than transparent; the people would gobble up anything remotely resembling news. Vector, being San Castelanian himself, could not be linked to the Republic, and, even if people did start nosing around, who would suspect a country which prizes honesty above everything else of making something up? All he needed was a reason for anyone to listen to him.
Vector opened the swinging metal doors and gasped at the biggest kitchen he had ever seen. That wasn’t saying much, coming from him, but still this kitchen was a spectacle. It hummed with life, a multitudinous system of disparate yet symbiotically connected organisms exemplifying the concepts of efficiency, synergy, and several other meaningless buzzwords. Trade the pastries for pistols, and you had yourself enough firepower to lay siege to San Castelano’s capital. Strange, that while the regular folk in the country starved, the bureaucrats in this place ate like czars.
The man in charge of this operation was a portly fellow with the customary Filchgardian mustache, and one bum eye that only opened halfway, due to an accident in his youth involving a Duchess, a saber, and an expensive bottle of champagne. He regarded Vector only tangentially, and, in an almost symbolic gesture, he moved a pan of sauce to the back burner before giving the guest his attention.
“What is it you want?” the chef demanded. “I don’t have all day to give tours to immigrants.”
“Condiments,” Vector said.
“Condiments?”
“Correct. Particularly that nasty, white goop you people put on everything.”
“You mean mayonnaise?”
“Is that what’s it’s called?”
“If that’s what you’re talking about, yeah. It’s made from eggs and oil.”
“I guess. I just know it’s white and it tastes like…like…”
“Like mayonnaise?”
“That’s it! You got any?”
“Only about a thousand pounds of the stuff. I know you San Castelanos prefer your food to be spiced with the blood of the innocent-”
“The younger the better.”
“But we Filchgardians have more refined palates. We appreciate subtlety, sir. We don’t need to tie down our tongues and assault them in order to enjoy a meal.”
“How long does it take to go bad?” Vector asked.
“What?”
“To spoil. The mayonnaise. You know. To get…even nastier.”
“If it was left unrefrigerated, not very long, I’d say.”
“Good. Leave a tub out in the sun for me. Let me know when it turns.”
“What are you going to do with spoiled mayonnaise?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s classified.”
There’s a stretch of wasted land along the border between San Castelano and the Republic of Filchgard where no industry operates and no crop will take root. It’s one of those regions that are so uncomfortable they can’t even be properly categorized, like when you hear about a frozen desert or a solid, salty lake. It stretches so far in every direction that neither nation even bothers to guard it, except for a couple paltry lines of barbed wire, which are merely there for posterity’s sake. When Vector was growing up, it was called the “No Man’s Land,” but the Viceroy had recently changed it to “Nobody’s Land,” after his wife informed him that the name was sexist, since women couldn’t survive there either. Whatever you called it, this barren area would serve as the starting-point for Vector’s plan. The sun was just coming down, and the Viceroy couldn’t help but comment on the contrast between the pastel beauty of the sky and the stark desolation of the land.
“Even here, on this garbage expanse, you can find beauty.”
Vector, sitting next to the Viceroy in the back seat of the truck, rolled his eyes. He had other things he should have been (but wasn’t) worrying about.
The driver pulled the truck to a stop about half a mile from the border. Vector hopped out and stripped to his underpants. He pulled out and inspected the mayonnaise. Curdled and gelatinous. So far so good. Sighing, he scooped out a handful and began smearing it on his chest. The Viceroy was alarmed.
“Vector, what the hell are you doing?” It was a fair question.
“I’d rather not put it into words at the moment, sir,” Vector said, making sure he achieved uniform coverage in both his arm pits.
“And why not?”
“Because it’s stupid, and you would criticize me.”
“You’re damn right. We’re just trying to sow mistrust, not invent some bizarre sexual fetish.”
“Just relax, Viceroy. In my experience, stupid plans are the only ones that work out. You know, this reminds me of a story my parents used to tell me when I was a child.”
“You poor boy.”
“I think that more than anything, this story made me who I am today. It’s the tale of the timid house-builder. Do you know it?”
“Can’t say I do,” the Viceroy said.
“Well, it goes like this. There once was a house-builder. He was the most knowledgeable house-builder in the land. People came from far and wide to hear his opinions and expertise, and he taught them all with joy. But, when it came time to build his own house, he questioned his every move, even down to the smallest hammer stroke. You see, knowing and doing are two different things, and he found that doing was all the more terrifying precisely because he knew all the ways he could mess it up. His doubt took up residence in that house, and the structure did not last a month. The moral of the story is obvious: when given a choice between confidence and knowledge, always choose confidence.”
The Viceroy considered this and nodded. He was impressed.
“Um,” the driver, who until now had been silent, said. “Why choose?”
“What?” Vector said.
The driver continued. “Why did he have to choose? That builder’s problem wasn’t that he had too much knowledge, but that he didn’t believe in himself. What if, on top of all that expertise, he also had the confidence you discuss? How much better would he have been than some cocky amateur?”
“Oh,” Vector said. “I, uh, never thought of it that way.”
The three men stood in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. Finally, Vector relented. “This is awkward.”
The Viceroy coughed. The driver regretted saying anything. Vector’s mostly nude body was covered in rotten mayonnaise. Oh well, too late now. Saying no more, Vector shrugged and began his walk into San Castelano.
It was late, but Felix still had a little more work to do. Cut some wood, feed the chickens, water the crops. All things a farmer does. Felix was a cobbler, but he lived in a country where to be poor meant you also had to be a farmer. Things were rough for San Castelano, despite what the man on the radio said. The food shortage had caused prices to skyrocket, and he had had to learn the hard way that people in a depression needed a lot less cobbling. So, if he was going to feed his child, he had to try and grow his own food. He was really bad at it, except for turnips. He and the turnip had an understanding: you grow on my hardtack plot just on this side of No Man’s Land (oh, Nobody’s Land, excuse me), and I won’t dig you up and replace you with potatoes. It was an empty threat, as Felix had never gotten the hang of potatoes. He had a feeling the turnips knew this, but they played along anyway. His daughter’s first word had been “Daddy,” followed quickly by the words, “if you serve me another fucking turnip I will report you to the government as a Filchgardian agent.” Felix was very proud of her. They say turnips are good brain food.
Closing the chicken coop, Felix sighed and looked north, to the land of his supposed enemies. They said things were even worse in the Republic, but he couldn’t see how that was possible. What, did they abandon their old on ice floes when they no longer contributed to society? Did they eat human flesh? Honestly, Felix thought, I wouldn’t mind a nice, hearty thigh filet, if it meant I could abstain from turnips for a meal or two. The truth was, Felix had never really trusted the government of San Castelano. Their views of reality almost never converged with his own. But what choice did he have? A man such as him was powerless against the forces of control. He alone could do nothing.
A speck appeared on the horizon, slowly growing in size as it came nearer. After a few moments, Felix saw that it was a man. A San Castelanian man, crossing Nobody’s Land alone, almost naked, and covered in…something. When the man finally arrived at the chicken coop, he collapsed.
“My goodness, friend!” Felix said. “What is your story?”
“I’ll tell you,” the man whispered. “But first, I need something.”
“What?” Felix asked.
“A shower, some clothes, and something spicy to eat.”
Vector sat at the head of the family’s table. He had tried to offer his seat to Felix, but his host would have none of it. Guests are so rare, he had said, that they must be appreciated. After all, it was only the two of them living in this cabin, as Felix’s wife had passed the previous winter. The meal was modest, but delicious. Strips of chicken, covered in a variety of spices, atop a bed of mashed turnips. Vector ate it with satisfaction. Felix, too, seemed to be enjoying himself. The young child, however, was crying uncontrollably.
“Is she okay?” Vector asked. “You yourself said she was tired of eating your ordinary fare. You’d think she would be liking this.”
“The chicken we’re eating was her beloved pet,” Felix said. “Her name was Petunia.”
Vector spit the contents of his mouth back onto his plate. “My God, man! You didn’t have to do that!”
“Nonsense,” Felix said. “We have a rooster, so we can make more Petunias. How are we to know when we will receive another guest?”
“I suppose that makes a kind of sense,” Vector said. He looked to the child and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
Unperturbed, Felix continued. “We admittedly don’t eat the chickens that often. Special occasions, mostly, or when they die natural deaths. It’s easy to become attached to them.”
“No doubt.” Not surprisingly, this did not make Vector feel better. But it had little to do with the task at hand. “Anyway, I imagine you want to know where I come from?”
“I know where you come from,” Felix said. “San Castelano. That much is obvious. What I want to know is how you ended up in Filchgard, and what was that material you were covered with?”
“It’s called mayonnaise.”
“That is a dumb name.”
“Agreed. It’s a food product.”
“They eat that?”
“Yes,” Vector said. “Though it is usually not quite as rancid. The sun in Nobody’s Land didn’t do me any favors.”
“I should say not. So, how was it you got smothered in the stuff? And why, I ask again, were you in the Republic?”
“Well, this is going to sound strange,” Vector said, “but where I come from, I was not in the Republic.”
“What the blazes does that mean? Of course it was the Republic. How can you come from a place that is a different place from where you come? From. Uh…came?”
Vector readied himself. His entire plan depended on his answer to this question. Build with confidence. “You are correct, my friend. It is indeed the same place. What it is not, however, is the same time.”
“You mean…”
“That’s right,” Vector said. “I am from the future.”
He had expected to be asked to present proof, but, much to his surprise, Felix believed the story immediately. Vector explained how he was a member of a political action group who sent him back in time in order to prevent some terrible event. The time machine was located in an abandoned building which used to be the Truth Center. When Vector arrived in the current time, he was alarmed to find himself swimming in a large vat of mayonnaise. Due to his advanced fighting prowess, he was able to escape and flee across Nobody’s Land, until he finally arrived at Felix’s feet. It was clearly shocking to the cobbler/farmer, but not out of the realm of possibility. Who was he to say whether traveling through time could not be done? It was more believable than some of the things he heard on the state-sponsored radio station, that was for sure. Still, it took some time to process, so they sat quietly for a while. The first thing Felix eventually said was, “How do I die?”
“I don’t know that, Felix,” Vector responded. “I never met you until just now.”
“Oh, right.”
“Where I come from --when I come from, the Republic of Filchgard no longer exists. It has been taken over and absorbed by San Castelano.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Felix asked. “I mean, they’re our worst enemies, right? Getting rid of them would solve a lot of our problems.”
“You’d think, friend, but you’d be wrong. I’m afraid you’ve been lied to. The Chancellor is a wretched beast, hungry for control, indifferent to the plight of the common man. Until now, the Viceroy of Flichgard has been the only one keeping him in check. But, in about a month’s time, the Viceroy will be assassinated, leaving a power vacuum in the Filchgardian capital. Pelltrix will not wait around for the Republic to get back on its feet. He will demolish the wall and march troops right up Main Street. Once Filchgard is contained, he will begin his real plan. He will dissolve the parliament, taking all decision-making power for himself. He will enslave us all, Flichgardian and San Castelanian alike, taking away our ability to protest, and stealing our hard-earned money for himself.”
“That snake in the grass! I always knew he was up to no good!” Felix said.
“Indeed. I myself never trusted the man. So, when I came of age, I joined the Resistance.”
“Wow! What’s that like? Tell me about your outfit.”
“We’re, um, a ragtag group of misfits, representing an acceptably wide yet comfortably accessible range of demographics,” Vector said.
“Of course. Do you have an uneducated fellow from the southern region who constantly reminisces of his life back home?”
“We do. His name is…Lafayette.”
“Naturally. And I assume you have a female who is overly aggressive?”
“Her name is Valdez.” Vector was starting to get the hang of this. Felix already knew the story he wanted to hear, all Vector had to do was tell it. “And we have--I should say ‘had’ --a genius scientist who had to earn our respect in the field, and did so, unfortunately at the cost of his own life. But, because of him, we were able to escape the Naval Research Facility with the final piece of technology required for our time machine. Dr. Jacobson will be missed.”
“Man! I bet that even though he knew all that science stuff, he learned a thing or two from you along the way.”
Vector almost felt bad for leading Felix on in such a manner. The man was clearly simple, or, as Vector’s mother would have called him, “refreshingly uncomplicated.” He wouldn’t know the truth if it walked up and ate his daughter’s prized chicken. But, this was the job Vector had signed up for, and it definitely beat another three and a half weeks in the Republic’s Truth Center. If everything went according to plan, he would be a free man in just a couple days. Then he could hop on a boat, or a balloon, or a bus, and leave both of these miserable countries for good. As you have probably guessed, however, everything did not go according to plan.
And now, an analogy. Imagine a dog. A perfectly healthy, if somewhat curious and less than discerning dog. Now, imagine that this dog is in the woods, and he happens upon a dead skunk. The dog hasn’t eaten in two days, so this skunk seems like a treat from the great master in the sky. Only the dog, not having any epidemiological training, fails to ensure that the skunk’s carcass is free of disease, and thereby becomes infected with rabies. The dog suddenly desires nothing more than to share his new-found illness with the other woodland creatures. So, he infects a squirrel, who in turn infects a crow, who falls out of the sky and in to a village’s water supply. Upon drinking that tainted water, the villagers become rabid. One of the villagers bites a mailman from a neighboring village, and from there, the skunk’s contribution to society becomes difficult to track. Now, imagine that every recipient of that particular strain of rabies was able to change it in a way that made it both more contagious, and harder to defend against. Before long, so many people would be infected that it would make more sense to simply change the default state of rabidness than to make any attempt at a cure.
After a week and a half back in his home state of San Castelano, Vector felt very much like that diseased skunk corpse. His lie had taken on a life of its own, becoming something that even he could have never imagined. As he walked the streets, from Felix’s village to the capital, people he had never seen before would tell him versions of the story that he himself had concocted. Only it was different from the tale he had told Felix and his daughter. It now had more characters than people Vector had ever met. It had multiple plots and subplots, many written or rewritten knowingly by the teller on the spot, despite being presented as factual. It changed to fit peoples’ moods, to amplify their arguments, or to simply become more interesting. But the central theme remained. Chancellor Pelltrix was an insidious man, whose corruption knew no bound and whose danger was apparent. Oddly enough, the Chancellor was often portrayed as an evil genius in one sentence, and a bumbling moron the next. Not only did people not point out these inconsistencies, they seemed to take them as proof of the story’s veracity. Reality is really nothing more than the story which has the most believers. By giving birth to this ridiculous consensus, Vector had in effect re-coded the world.
It was fun, actually. A sort of group activity, a storytelling exercise which had succeeded in bringing people closer to one another than they had been in years. More than anything else, the lie was a conversation starter. Once-bitter rivals now had a common enemy to fight, allowing them to put aside their petty squabbles. Indifferent neighbors now inquired about the health of your children, or offered to lend you some flour. Vector took some pride in knowing that his tale had softened certain behaviors, but he was weary of the long-term effects of his actions. He knew that the best lies were small, like telling someone they didn’t look fat, or convincing a doorman to let you in to an exclusive party under false pretenses. If these lies backfire, the consequences are not so severe. You’ll just be asked to leave the party, or simply re-affirm the already-held body image of a friend. But lies on such a grand scale as Vector’s current endeavor could have catastrophic consequences. In order to avoid tragedy, the liar had to be all the more vigilant in the telling. That became impossible once the narrative was no longer in his control. Vector, in the exponential spreading of his story, foresaw the collapse of society. Already, armed militias were marching in the streets. Already, disdain for the government had extrapolated and morphed into racial and social biases. Violence, though until now a fringe character, was suddenly being written into the script. And even though this was exactly what the Viceroy had wanted, and even though he had never done so before, Ptolemy Vector eventually succumbed to guilt.
The receptionist had her fingers on her radio dial, indicating that Vector had approximately five seconds to say something interesting. Vector, sensing this imminent deadline, cut to the chase. “I’m the guy from the future.”
“Huh?” the receptionist said. Her fingers moved a micrometer clockwise, and the radio’s background static became an unheard, subliminal hum.
“You’ve heard the story going around, haven’t you? The guy from the future, sent to stop the Chancellor from taking over the entire region?”
“Of course, I’ve heard the story. Some of what I hear seems crazy, but…” She looked around in the universally useless conspiratorial manner of someone about to break a little rule. “I always had a feeling the Chancellor was up to no good.”
“And yet you work as the receptionist in his office,” Vector said.
“Health benefits.”
“Of course.”
“Anyway, what do you want?”
Vector was confused. “What do I want? I just told you, I’m the guy! The future guy! Except, I’m not from the future. I actually came over here on orders from Filchgard, to shake things up and lower peoples’ confidence in the government. But it’s gone too far. I guess…I guess I’m here to turn myself in.”
The receptionist snorted. “You think I’m stupid? That’s a ridiculous story!”
“Doesn’t it make more sense than time travelling, mayonnaise-covered, history-revising secret agents?”
“Maybe so, but where’s the intrigue? Where’s the romance?”
“It’s the truth! It doesn’t have any of that!”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t believe you.”
“That’s okay, my dear,” a voice boomed from down the hall. “I believe him.” Freddie Pelltrix, Chancellor of San Castelano, approached Vector and shook his hand. Had Vector not already had every one of his illusions pertaining to world leaders shattered just a week prior, he would have been intimidated.
This room was remarkably similar to the room in which he had met the Viceroy, and the Chancellor himself bore some resemblance to his northern counterpart. What was different was Vector’s mood. Whereas, in his meeting with the Viceroy, he was anxious, curious, and ultimately hopeful, now he was simply resigned to death. His first humanitarian decision would undoubtedly prove to be his last. The Chancellor seemed to understand this as well, his usual smug grin now even more serpentine, anchored by two frightfully punch-able dimples like needle-points on a haunted sock puppet. Vector was doomed.
“I’m doomed, aren’t I?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” the Chancellor replied. “More doomed than most people ever become. You should be proud.”
“Should I?”
“Sure. You almost took down my rule without firing a single round. That’s impressive. Under different circumstances, I would be honored to have you working under me. Of course, your plan failed, but we’re grading on a curve here. You came closer to success than anyone else ever has.”
Vector, despite everything, felt the need to hold on to whatever self-respect he still possessed. “My plan only failed because I turned myself in. I would’ve gotten away with it if I hadn’t started feeling guilty.”
The door opened and two guards guided a man with a hood over his head into the room. The Chancellor stood and grabbed the top of the hood. “That’s not entirely true, is it…” he removed the hood. “Felix?”
Vector gazed upwards and smiled at his only San Castelanian friend, now on the other side of the table. “Felix,” he said, “you figured it out.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“How?”
“That white stuff.”
“The mayonnaise.”
“Yeah. The mayonnaise. I tried some of it.”
“You…tried some of it?”
“Yeah, while you were sleeping.”
“But the only way you could have done that is if you ate it off of my--”
“It’s not important how I got it, alright? The point is, I tried it and I knew you were lying. There’s no way they use that stuff in their food.”
“It was spoiled, Felix. And you scraped it off of my underpants.”
“Eww,” the Chancellor said.
“Right?” Vector said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Felix said. “Times are rough. You think I’ve never had spoiled food before? You think I always know where my food’s been, what it’s touched before I eat it? That stuff was gross no matter what. So, I got to thinking, if he’s lying about eating mayonnaise, maybe he’s lying about being from the future.”
“It took you ten days to come to that conclusion?”
“Oh, no. I figured that out right away. It was just that I didn’t see anything wrong with the story at first. To be honest, Chancellor, some of what he said did make sense.”
The Chancellor, clearly unused to people being critical of him to his face, tensed up in a circumnavigational clench.
Felix continued unimpeded. “But, after a while I started hearing some stuff I didn’t like. Stuff about burning down the capital, about keeping people out of our country. My mom was from some far-away land she called Norway, so I like people from other places. This stuff was pretty scary, so I figured I had no choice.”
“You’re a good person, Felix,” Vector said.
“Thanks. Say, Chancellor, what do I get for uncovering the conspiracy?”
Pelltrix looked genuinely shocked. “Get? For helping your country? What do you get? Out of my face, that’s what you can get!”
“Yep,” Felix said. He left the room and Vector never saw him again.
The Chancellor cleared his throat. “Just the two of us, once more.”
“Goody,” Vector said.
The Chancellor laughed. “You know, because of what I said earlier, about being impressed, and because you’re a native San Castelanian, and because I’m incredibly magnanimous, I’ve decided to give you one more chance. Which side are you on? Do you support me, the modest leader of your home country, or the Viceroy, that villain who threw you into the lion’s den so he could benefit from afar?”
Vector chuckled, thinking of the driver who had dropped him off in Nobody’s Land. “Why choose?” he said.
“What?”
Vector took a deep breath. For the last time, he reminded himself to build with confidence. “I’ve met both you and the Viceroy, and I cannot, for the life of me, come up with anything distinguishing you from him. This Tepid Entanglement is nothing more than a pointless testicle-measuring contest between two sad, entitled idiots who have never broken an honest sweat in your lives. You’re ruining people, starving them and setting them up to fail, so that you can be in power. Only you don’t even have the decency to kill them outright, because you need at least some of them to vote for you so it seems somewhat legitimate when you rig the elections. The only way to survive in the world you two have created is to go all in on yourself, to act with extreme arrogance. I’ve become quite good at that, but now I think that maybe I’ve survived enough. So, quit wasting my time and just kill me.”
The Chancellor smiled. “Oh, no,” he said. “I have a better idea.”
They had him erased. Over the course of the next few months, any trace of Ptolemy Vector was seemingly scrubbed away, replaced with a new identity, that of a man named Reuben Garcia. They accomplished this by constantly yelling, “Your name is Reuben Garcia!” through the loudspeaker in his cell. The straightforward approach is often the best. Eventually, Vector stopped fighting it, if only to get a couple hours of sleep. In fact, it was while in bed that Ptolemy Vector died and Reuben Garcia was born. He wasn’t sure why he was in this small room, but he knew that whatever the reason, he had to get out. San Castelano needed him.
They released Reuben into a halfway home where he was assigned a social worker to help him assimilate into society. The social worker had no knowledge of Reuben’s past, but she was very friendly and he liked her. She liked him, too. She noticed he had a charming way of telling stories, so she suggested he try to make a go at a political career. Reuben had nothing but respect for the politicians of San Castelano, and he didn’t want to cost one of them a job, but Genesis hounded him until he gave it a shot. He was a natural. Within a year, he was on the council of the capital city, and word was that he was in the running for a cabinet position in the federal government.
The word was correct. Chancellor Pelltrix had hand-chosen Ruben to be San Castelano’s very first Minister of Deception. Quite the honor, even if Reuben didn’t really know much on the subject. He would learn, the Chancellor assured him. He would learn.
He conducted his meetings in a windowless room with walls constructed out of some oddly luminescent white material. Looking for liars, is what it amounted to. He was good at it.
He sat at the table as the day’s final prisoner was brought in. The last one was always the quickest. They don’t ever save the best for last with these sorts of things, and he had to get home to Genesis. The prisoner, a pale woman from the north, was waiting for Reuben to speak, so speak he did.
“Tell me a lie about the Republic of Filchgard.”
Now, any good storyteller would end the tale right here. Notice the narrative symmetry? Notice the Orwellian moral? But you and I know that the truth doesn’t give any thought to those things. We know that the truth is always the strangest guy in the buffet line.
“No,” the prisoner said.
Reuben leaned forward. This was new. “No?”
“No. I don’t want to tell you any lies. And I don’t want to talk about the Republic of Filchgard.”
Reuben was intrigued. “Okay, then. What do you want to talk about?”
“You, Ptolemy Vector.”
Reuben was confused. “I’m sorry, miss, but you must be mistaken. My name is Reuben Garcia, and I am the Minister of Deception for the fine country of San Castelano.”
“No, you’re not.”
Something didn’t feel right. “I’m…not?”
“No, your name isn’t Reuben Garcia, it’s Vector. Ptolemy Vector.”
“Ptolemy?”
“Yeah, with a silent P.”
“Well, that’s silly.”
“Hey, man, it’s your name.”
“No, it isn’t. My name is--”
“Yeah, yeah, Reuben Garcia. Only it isn’t. And you aren’t Minister of anything. You’re a criminal, a liar, and an over-confident asshole. But, apparently, you’re also a pretty good guy. You’re the proverbial hooker with a heart of gold, and you’re just what my organization needs right now. You’re still in there somewhere, Vector. I’m here to break you out.”