Faster on My Own: Chapter 38
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When Steven woke up, who was gently slapping his cheek? Why didn’t they show any concern for his comfort? What was it about sleep that left him too hazy-brained to remember much, and made him expect to wake up in his White House bedroom, so he flinched when Arnold’s face consumed his field of vision instead? “Have you accepted your defeat today?”
“Is my skull fucked up?”
“Do you think I’m worried about that?” Did Arnold laugh as he lightly slapped Steven’s temple because he enjoyed slapping? “Don’t you want to see the city you’ll never kill, one last time?”
Who were the guards that lifted Steven? Where were the two women who found him? Was it the bright sunlight that stung his eyes? How many people swarmed the burnt and bombed streets? And how did, when everywhere, someone was tending to another, and had someone tending to them, did they not grow tired? Could the beauty of what they’d created be seen anywhere but from above? Why must Steven’s reaction be one of bitter failure? “You know I wanted you to win this one, right?”
“You weren’t trying to get across the border?” Arnold laughed again, obviously still riding the high of an unexpected victory. “Can you admit that you failed?”
“Can you admit you don’t know the half of it?” Could he count the people bustling in the street? How, even though their city had been battered to the edge of total destruction, their homes burnt to the ground, did so many walk with a certain bounce in their step? It couldn’t be simply joy at escaping death, could it? Was it the confidence that they were about to win? Had Steven ever been in the presence of this exuberance that popped from one mind to the other, saturating everyone in a quiet bliss?
“Oh, you don’t think I know your type? Like you haven’t been doing this for centuries?” Why did Arnold’s voice grow hard? Did he not share in the joy from below? “You know what I regret? How long did it take to get here? How many people did people like you get to kill before we could get here? And why don’t people like you die sooner?”
“Don’t you know I’m going to die happy?” Steven smiled.
“Who do you think is going to save you? Are you hoping some other state will invade to protect you? Maybe after your execution, they’ll get involved? Maybe? How long will we be fighting them? But, you? You’ll be a stain on the grass, won’t you?” Why did Arnold start yelling now? What did he want from Steven? The catharsis of a final confrontation? Why wasn’t showing the enemy the seeds of his destruction finally coming to bloom a satisfying moment for Arnold? How long must Steven hide his elation, just to play his role?
“You think you’ll hold the capital for more than a week? And don’t you know that both of us are going to die? Is it worth wasting your life, and all of their lives, just to kill a few of the people at the top. Doesn’t power always return to those fit to wield it?”
Why was Arnold smiling? “Don’t you see, all that violence you needed to keep your power was because you didn’t include the people? That it won’t be necessary now? But you may be wondering: why did I bring you out here? Are you interested in an offer?”
“Oh? Am I being given the choice to kill myself with some dignity rather than be publicly executed? Do you really think I’d do it?”
“No, I wouldn’t, would I?” Who looked more the part of the victorious leader than Arnold? How did seriousness and jubilation mix so perfectly on his face? How blotchy had Steven’s face become? How patchy was his beard? “What if you renounced all of your actions? Admitted to the world that you have seen the light of the people’s revolution? Showed the world that our message is so righteous that it could reach even you? Would you do that to live?”
“What kind of life?”
“How about a private villa, from which you can never leave?”
Was it yet another return to Napoleon? Wouldn’t it be better for him to lend his support to the revolution, to cap his awful reign by admitting the error of such brutal governance, and disappearing? Might it not be nice to avoid death– which, while exciting on a symbolic level, carried with it certain personal terrors about the void beyond? But what would happen without the narrative simplicity of a revolution killing the dictator and taking power? What if it undercut the promise that anyone who attempted to oppress the people would meet a brutal end? Was life worth abandoning the crucial last steps of the Plan? Could Steven rest, knowing he didn’t do all he could to bring about the eternal rule of the people? “Does it surprise you if I choose to die?”
“You would rather die, than say a few words that mean nothing to you? Don’t you see that one way or another, this outer world no longer exists for you? That whether you die or retreat into obscurity, none of these events will affect you? So why?”
Where does pomposity emerge from, within the body? The lungs? Is there anywhere else Steven could summon it from? “Is it so strange I’d rather die than help you? That I’d die to defend order?”
“Will history remember you, who presided over a coup and revolution, who murdered countless people who spoke out against your dictatorship, as a paragon of order? Why, why did I believe you could be reasoned with?”
Why were the guards so rough with Steven as they took him away? Could Steven use reverse psychology to get Arnold to do more, perhaps abandoning state rule? How could he find out, even though he never spoke to Arnold again?
#
The trudge through the mountains felt different this time. If Sam’s forces had been as devastated as Arnold claimed, then on the other side of the mountains sat victory for the revolution. Even though it meant his execution, Steven could hardly contain himself. Whenever one of the rebels goaded him about his approaching death, he had to put on a scowl, or a sudden look of terror, when it was glee that filled him to the point of bursting.
Camping one night, as the guard studious avoided his gaze, he practiced his last words. Against the canvas walls of the tent, he bounced ideas as high minded as recognizing the justice of the revolution, to ones as petty as claiming that their government would fall just as his had. Steven needed his words to be the perfect capstone to the Plan. They had to grant the new government with the legitimacy of a people’s revolution, but also slam the door on the fascism that Steven had represented for so long. Short enough to be repeated, but eloquent enough that they would want to. He toyed with admitting the truth, exclaiming to the world that this was the end he had foreseen, but at best it would come off as him trying to save his own life. No, his death needed to further the cause. It was, after all, what he had been working toward all this time.
He said to the guard, “What about ‘Power cannot remain in the hands of so many, so widely spread. Only a firm grip can control it.’? Does that pop?”
The guard, to his surprise after countless unanswered questions, said, “You’re wrong. It’s the opposite. Power cannot be contained in the hands of the few. That’s why it takes so much violence for someone like you to keep it.” This guard, a young man with a thoughtful gaze and a soft voice, said, “Have you considered repenting for everything you’ve done?”
“Repenting? No. Everything I did was for the good of this nation. You’ll see, when I’m gone, and all of you are running the show. The world is brutal, and you have to be brutal right back to maintain order.” Steven scratched his chin, now covered in a week-old beard. He didn’t know how it looked, but hoped to shave before his execution. People deserved to see the face they were familiar with as the life left his eyes. “Say, you have any idea how they’re gonna kill me? I’m trying to get a feel for the situation, but you know, would I say the same thing before the firing squad as I would before they hang me? I don’t know.”
“I haven’t been told that.”
“Damn. Well, what about ‘The people deserve what they choose.’? There’s meaning in there, right?” Steven imagined himself, hair blowing in the wind, ten rifles pointed at him. It was poignant, open to interpretation, and not explicitly pro-revolution. When the ULF’s government worked out well, they would be able to look back at his last words and think that he was, unexpectedly, correct.
"No. This is your last chance to speak to the world. You had the chance to warn people about this revolution. It's happening. It happened. All you need to say is how you feel about what you've done. If you feel good about it, fine. Some of us are monsters."
The insinuation pricked at Steven. Irritated by the guard's dismissal of his importance, he wanted to rip the mask off and reveal the nature of his Plan. But he took a few deep breaths, he calmed down. Anger would not see him through to the end. Even after that irritation passed, the idea of telling the guard stuck with him. When he tried to tell Arnold, it had seemed insincere, a flailing attempt to avoid death. Telling the guard, though, wouldn't seem so craven. Perhaps, after his death, the rumor would float through society, that President Williams was actually a deep cover agent for the revolution. That everything he did was meant, not to suppress it, but to make real the conditions necessary for it. Surely it wouldn’t enter the annals of official history— Steven had left behind no hard evidence sufficient for that claim— but instead it might hang around as a hunch shared by many who looked into the strange life of Steven Williams. So, he explained. After a long, winding description of his motivations and the path that led him to the dictatorship, with all of his intentions laid bare, the guard didn’t shout disbelief, nor did he thank Steven for what he had done.
Instead, he stared into Steven’s eyes, and after a minute’s silence, said, “It doesn’t matter. You did what you did. In Detroit, I was shot. You left me to die. Was that your way of supporting the revolution?”
“Look, that was a trying time. I admit I panicked. It would’ve been much better for me too if I’d stayed with you, since you clearly lived and I got my head bashed in by, uh, whoever Tara’s friend is.”
“Justification isn’t the important thing. Your actions, no matter why you did them, hurt millions of people. I don’t care that you had the revolution in mind, I care that I was bleeding in an alley and you ran away. You get it?” He took a deep breath. “You can’t turn the wrong thing into a right one by having a good reason. So I don’t want your apology, not that you offered it. But the world deserves to hear you say you’re sorry. It won’t make it better. No, it won’t. But it’s important anyway. And after that, who cares? Me, I don’t care if you live or die.” Steven felt strange, since his guard, whose name he only now realized he didn’t know, expressed his indifference warmly, with genuine care that Steven should receive the message,
It took a moment for Steven to collect himself after that. For the first time in ten years, he considered saying he was sorry, for the harm, for abandoning people to die. But the person in front of him didn’t want it. That moment of hesitation, of wondering if it was appropriate to say he was sorry, was long enough for Steven to tell himself that this guard didn’t know what he was talking about. An individual action, after all, is not an isolated event. While the immediate effects of some of his actions may have been harmful, the end result was beneficial for humanity. From the looks of society in Detroit, the revolution could bring joy to the people of the United States on a massive scale. After that, it was a matter of inspiring the world to follow suit. Much like medicine sometimes damages the body as it cures it, Steven’s reign was necessary to push the people into the state of mind they needed to fix their problems. So no, Steven would not apologize. Instead, he said, “Your lack of vision is not my fault. The very fact that you’re about to seize control of the government is proof that what I did worked. The collateral damage was, of course, sad. But it’s worth it to stop another hundred years of everyone suffering. Someone had to do it.”
The guard shook his head and turned away from Steven, whose earlier hopes deflated. That man would not go on to spread the word of Saint Steven Williams, the secret hero of the revolution. No, if Steven wanted that rumor to spread, he would need it to stem from his last words. But as the night came to an end, and the time to push onward arrived, Steven still had only a few unsatisfactory fragments.