Insurgence [h.s]

one

Wherever I go, silence follows me.

It feels like an awaiting reckoning.

D. I.

• • •

THE PALACE, July 23rd 2263

Jackson steps into Harry's office. He's swapped the black uniform with a black suit, more appropriate for the refined elegance that characterises the upper floors of the Palace. Still, the badge next to his heart glints golden when it catches the lights overhead, baring his allegiance to anyone clever enough to know what it means. "You've requested me, sir?"

Harry's fingers tap on the armrest of his chair, faintly restless. "Are the main cameras in the archive still deactivated?"

Jackson frowns but nods. "Yes, sir."

Harry's gaze falls to the folder on the desk in front of him. He puts the contents back inside and closes it before standing. "I'm going to have to make an odd request of you, Jackson," he starts, walking towards the window. His eyes slide over the main gates, just barely visible from his floor. It's a long drop to the street.

Usually, he doesn't feel the need to explain himself. In his mind, it's easy: he only has to command, and people only have to obey. This time, though, he knows it won't be that simple. Jackson is smart, but his mind works differently than Harry's. It'll require some degree of information to make sure he does his part perfectly.

"It's about Bryce."

A hitch in Jackson's throat. "Bryce? What about him?" Worry is in his voice—it's well concealed, but Harry is apt at reading people. Nobody can keep secrets from him—though he takes great care in not making it obvious. It's easier to weave the threads of manipulation through people's minds when they aren't holding their cards so close to their chest. He knows a lot of things about everyone around him—not that they're aware of it. For instance, he knows Jackson cares deeply about the members of the personal guard that are entrusted to him. His coldness his nothing but a facade to hide the sensitive spots beneath—his weakness.

To some degree, Harry can understand his fear. Bryce, barely twenty, admitted to the personal guard because Harry was pleased with the way he shot strangers at his command, thrown in the archive on his first day—still there, awaiting a new order that isn't coming. The dangers of getting on Harry's bad side are endless. Usually, death doesn't follow far behind.

Still, this situation is different.

"Have the archivist speak ill of me," Harry states.

Jackson's frown deepens. This is the issue with people—no matter how smart they are, they require so many explanations, clarifications. Harry can hardly be bothered with giving any; his thoughts are always scattering in a thousand directions at a time. They call it unpredictability, he calls it, you just haven't seen the connection yet. His plans are a trap set weeks, months in advance, a cascade of dominoes intertwined with the days to come so tightly that a simple flick of his finger in the present will make cities fall in the future. It takes some talent to understand the instances moving people and take advantage of them, but it takes ruthlessness and a little thirst for danger to direct everyone around him all the way to a scripted future.

"I want the archivist to speak ill of me in front of Bryce," he repeats.

"But... no one can speak ill of you within the walls of the Palace, sir," Jackson replies, daunted. He must think he's losing his mind.

A faint smile curves Harry's lips. "That's exactly why." No one can badmouth him in the Palace. It's not a written rule, but his actions have made it clear: his employees are either on his side, or they simply aren't. Saying a word against him where the cameras can catch it is the quickest way to disappear. "Bryce needs to believe the cameras in the archive aren't active."