I wipe the sweat gathered on my upper lip for the hundredth time today, not caring about smearing dirt on my face. It’s so coated with it anyway that more would make little difference. A Shugo jabs me in the back with his gun and tells me to stop lagging. I dust off my hands on my dirty grey skirt.”Shugo” means “guardian” or “keeper” in Japanese, one of the many dead languages, but they are hardly that. They are the enforcers of the law, the jailers, the executioners.
I am told that Japanese, along with hundreds of other languages, died out as English spread throughout the world. That’s all that is spoken now, English, with only the Shugos as proof others once existed.
I start to hum a bit. There isn’t much music anymore, because music doesn’t get you food and safety. But I always thought it was nice, having something Central can’t steal from you. The tune I hum is a simple one, known by most of the other workers here, because I hum it often. A few weeks ago I added words to it, but I can only sing it when the Shugos aren’t around, because they would surely punish me.
Seeing the cost clear, I attempt to wet my parched lips and open my dust-coated mouth.
“God bless us everyone, we’re a broken people living under loaded gun, and it can’t be outfought, it can’t be outdone, it can’t be outmatched, it can’t be outrun. No!”
Some of the workers hum along, bless them, and others are staring at me, shocked. I ignore them and sing it again, this time some of them joining in.
“God bless us everyone, we’re a broken people living under loaded gun, and it can’t be outfought, it can’t be outdone, it can’t be outmatched, it can’t be outrun. No!”
It’s now quite the scene, most of us lifting the large stone blocks onto the wall, singing in unison with each other and our work. But that is the only verse, and it soon dies out, until one brave worker starts up another verse he must have come up with, because I certainly didn’t.
“God save us everyone, will we burn inside the fires of a thousand suns? For the sins of our hand, the sins of our tongue, the sins of our father, the sins of our young? No!”
It catches on quickly, but as we are repeating it, I spot a Shugo hurrying over. I panic, and try to hush them quickly, but my heart sinks as the Shugo shouts.
“What is the meaning of this?!” He roars. Everybody abruptly snaps their mouths shut and turns fearfully around.
“Who started this nonsense?!” He glares at everybody, waiting for an answer. Nobody says a word. He marches up to a young worker, probably about twenty or so, and grabs him by his shirt and lifts him up.
“I said, who started this?”
To his credit, the boy says not a word, and just glares back. The Shugo cuffs him over the head, and moves on to another worker.
I lift my chin up and say clearly, “I did. I started the singing. I’m sorry, does it bother you that we are using our voices in a way not legally approved by Central?”
He grabs my hair and yanks it up.
“Your are in no position to get smart with me, missy,” He snarls, shaking my head from side to side. “I’m very tempted to kill you on the spot.”
“So why don’t you? Oh yes, because you have to get permission from Central. You need to go run to Daddy to make it all better.”
I was expecting his fist to connect with my face the way it did, but it still hurts like hell. It was most certainly worth it, though. I’ve been wanting to tell a Shugo off for a very long time. He punches me gain, then drops me to the ground and kicks me.
“Just remember, “Daddy” owns you. You are just a piece of trash, easily thrown out. Gotten rid of. Once Central has gotten word of you rebellious acts, even your meager scrap of life will be meaningless.”
After he leaves, strong hands help me up. These workers are my friends – no – my family. The only family that I now know. They help me home, which is just a small room in the large building for the common people. I lay down on the thin mattress and close my eyes, close to tears. What have I done?
This close to Central, it is never truly quiet or dark here. You can always hear the sirens and gunshots, people shouting and crying. Their airships with their spotlights and the tall buildings with blinking lights are a permanent fixture here. And it is to these symphonies that I fall into a fitful sleep.
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The pounding on my door wakes me from my shallow sleep. I don’t even have time to climb off of my mattress before the Shugo’s burst through the door and grab me. I wince as one of them brushes against my side, the same spot I was kicked.
“What are you doing?” I croak, vision still blurry from sleep.
“We have orders from Central to place you under arrest for disturbing the peace and rebellious actions. You will come with us.”
I know what is coming, and I know it can’t get much worse, so I throw in a “rebellious action”.
“I would believe that, if there was any peace left to disturb.”
This Shugo doesn’t lose his temper, and he doesn’t punch me. Instead, he says calmly, “We have orders for your execution at sunset tomorrow.”
For once, I have nothing to say.
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They have allowed me to bring one thing with me to wear when they… at the execution. I grab the only other item of clothing that I own, and then we leave. They don’t put me in handcuffs, or tie my hands. There is no point. They know what I know: If I try to run, I will be dead in less than a second. I whistle softly under my breath. Apparently I am important enough a prisoner that they sent an airship, and it’s huge. I voice my thoughts, too, but am ignored.
