Free fiction: Gloom
by Eric Staggs, 2007
He was an agent of change. Real, tangible change. Where he passed, ripples shook society and ground alike. Nothing could be the same after an agent of changed passed this way. He’d been sitting motionless for hours or years, now. Timed-release narcotics saturating his blood. He blinked once a minute, and then not out of need, but habit.
He lay prone, on his stomach, sharp rocks gouging at his insides. He barely noticed them when he’d chosen this spot, now, after what seemed like years of waiting, he didn’t notice them at all.
The tools of his trade were many and varied, but in this particular instance, he chose an old standard, the first tool any agent of change must know intimately; violence.
From his vantage point, he could see a town spread out below, arrayed in a spider-web fashion, streets like spokes radiating out from a central point. That point, was the reasons the agent of change had come. That point was why change was necessary. That point was, for all intents and purposes, a church.
Mental games were a big part of the agent’s routine. So many hours spent motionless, boredom threatened to become psychosis, and needed to be kept in check. The chemicals and narcotics could help still the body, but the mind that was hidden behind those motionless eyes was a whirling storm, a processing center where torrents of data fed into his awareness, being sorted and cross-referenced.
In his mind’s eye, he’d painted everything. He ran his imaginary brushes over every inch and curve, corner and cranny of the scene before him. He’d painted the town in several styles, imitating the great masters from ages past. He’d sculpted it, etched the town in bronze, and even made it of stained glass. In his minds eye, he’d re-arranged the local star systems and super imposed them over his view, a galactic connect-the-dots…
A snowflake settled on his eye, immediately following his last blink. It stung only slightly, but blurred his vision. He hesitated, an uncharacteristic act, and then blinked the snowflake away.
The sun was setting in the west, and it had long since stopped snowing. The agent of Change was about to render the scene before him in an impressionist style, when one of those streams of cerebral data tripped a wire in his subconscious.
It was an encrypted satellite feed. It warned him that the tides of change were building, something was about to happen, something was moving, somewhere, so near. He let his mind activate those nerves along his extremities that had been quiet so long. He flexed his fingers and tested his muscles. His brain reorganized the cocktail mix in his mission gland and he began to come alive. With practiced ease, he flipped open the cover to his instruments scope, let his eye dilate the retinal range finder. He was suddenly quite aware of the rifle held in his arms for so long. It was hard and cold, and for a brief moment it felt alien. This all passed when he saw the door to the church crack open and warm gold light spill out into the darkening streets.
Priests. What good are they anyhow? Rabble rousers, hypocrites. This particular one had raised the ire of the powers-that-be on one too many worlds. He spoke less of the gods and worship, than he did of rights and fair play. He spoke of labor practices and organized movements.
By the time the Priest left his central abbey, a heavy darkness had settled on the small village. The priest, wrapped in non-descript brown robes, hefted a lantern in one hand and in his other, held the hand of a small child.
The agent of change watched silently as the priest warded off the gloom and walked the child through the streets. Two blocks later, they were met at the door by a young woman. She wore the uniform of a miner and was still smeared with dust and oil, her nose and cheeks still red from a days exposure to the freezing wind. She knelt and hugged the small child, then ushered her through the door. The agent of change could see the woman’s face clearly through his scope, she was thanking the priest, nearly in tears. She invited the priest in, but he refused. He smiled and went on his way. She watched him go, and only until he’d turned the corner and was no longer visible did she close the door.
The agent of change watched him go, watched him through the scope, resting the reactive-crosshairs on his temple, then his ear, then his eye. The priest walked steadily, each step purposeful, the lantern held aloft, chasing away the gloom.
From his high perch, the agent of change smiled. There were always ripples where he passed, from the ground itself to the highest strata of culture and politics. HE flipped his scope closed, let go of the trigger. As he walked away, his mind into itself, he realized that’s what priests do: chase away the gloom.
