The Visitor [December 27th, 2200]
A small man with a wiry face exits his car and places a briefcase on the ground while he rushes to straighten his hair in the car's wing mirror. He looks down at his watch and realizes he has only ten minutes left to get to his meeting. He makes one last attempt to smooth his hair before returning his comb to his pocket and picking up his briefcase, only to have his efforts undone by a brisk winter gust as he walks away, heading toward the complex he is destined for.
As he walks up the stairs, he notices that new signage has been installed; the old, nearly illegible writing that once occupied the front of the building is now replaced with large, blocky letters reading “State Security.” He takes a moment to appreciate the work before remembering he is on a tight schedule and continues on his way.
He walks into the waiting room, surprisingly large for a building that sees next to no visitors and operates strictly by appointment. He walks up to the desk, where an elderly woman sits, smoking a cigarette while tapping away at an old typewriter. She glances up for just a moment before returning to her work. As he introduces himself, she cuts him off sharply, “Name?” knocking him off guard. “I’m the diplomat for the Commonwealth, Kerko. I’m here to see- ” She cuts him off, “You’re three minutes late.” He stammers for a moment, “Well, the weather was terrible, you see, and...” he trails off, as he realizes with every word he speaks, she is typing something on a new sheet she had pulled from a pile of fresh stock while he was searching for the right thing to say. He stood silently for a moment, awkwardly waiting for her to finish. “Escort him to office 4B,” she says, handing the piece of paper to a man in uniform who has been standing so still he almost seems like a statue, his presence unnoticeable until that point.
The guard says, “Come,” as he opens the door he has been standing next to. He waits for Kerko to walk through. “Nice to meet you,” Kerko stammers, but the man merely gestures for him to enter. Kerko crosses the threshold, and without a second moment, the man follows and shuts the door behind them. The two begin walking down the winding corridors of the complex, heading toward an office Kerko knows well - a shabby room barely befitting the title “office,” where he is regularly debriefed after returning from his work as a representative in the Commonwealth. In theory, the room belongs to him, but he is always treated as little more than a visitor. Despite working in this position for nearly a decade, he cannot name a single other person who works in the building.
As they approach the office door, the guard stops out front, opens it, and gestures for him to enter. Kerko walks in, and within an instant the door shuts and locks behind him - a new procedure for the department that he is still unused to. He sits in the small chair he has grown accustomed to during his “visits” to his own office. He sits in the cramped chair for his supervisor to arrive and review his briefing pamphlet: a collection of documents he has written and gathered while working as a representative in the Commonwealth. He waits in the musty little room, listening to the old wall clock tick away the time. An hour passes, and he hears heavy footsteps approaching in the hallway.
The footsteps grow closer, and it is becoming apparent that his “guest” is about to arrive. Kerko can hear the guard outside say something to his supervisor, who replies with a quick, snarky retort that Kerko can’t quite make out. The door opens, and the fat, piggish man whom Kerko only refers to as “Sir” steps through. It is obvious he is out of breath, drenched in sweat. “The elevator is probably out again,” Kerko thinks to himself. As he goes to greet the man, his supervisor bellows, “Damn Kalbans, can’t even fix an elevator,” between heavy breaths. “Yes, sir, they’re just terrible. The other day, I had a Kalban work on my car, and he stole my spare tire!” Kerko lies, as he tries to find a way to navigate the conversation with as little whinging as possible. As he begins to speak, his supervisor cuts him off: “You know what they say about Kalbans,” the fat man says, letting out a chuckle. Kerko feigns a laugh and begins again, “So, there’s a new receptionist-” only to be cut off. “Enough of your blathering. You know I’m an incredibly busy man, and every second I waste in this office costs the patriots of this country! Now hurry up and hand over your documents, and let’s get this over with,” he says, sticking his short, clubbed arm out as he tries grabbing the briefcase, which has been placed just out of reach. Kerko shoves the case toward the man with his foot to avoid the inevitable reprimand should he simply hand it to him. “Here we are,” his supervisor says as he begins leafing through the ledgers and transcripts of meetings that Kerko collected, as per his instructions. The man starts reading one of the documents, occasionally making a comment, sometimes he laughs or scoffs, his thoughts are plastered on his face, betraying exactly what he is thinking. His supervisor begins going through the briefcase file by file. Kerko thinks, “Not even Blimp Drimp is this easy to read; you couldn’t find a worse person to be vice chair of the intelligence bureau in a million years.”
His supervisor reaches into the case, and he takes out the second-to-last document - a transcript Kerko made of a conversation between two diplomats weeks earlier. As he reads, his usual slovenly smirk disappears, and he becomes increasingly stern; for once, his face holds the bearing of a man befitting his station. He then says, “You are not to leave this room,” before quickly placing the document in a folder he has taken from the dusty desk. He stands up, knocks on the door, and steps out, having a brief but uncharacteristically serious conversation with the guard before his footsteps fade away.
Thirty minutes later, the guard opens the door and instructs Kerko to exit, leading him down a hallway he has never seen before. As he walks, the corridor grows increasingly luxurious: offices on either side become larger and more well-lit, and soon the concrete floor gives way to a smooth stone surface, clearly crafted with great effort. Soon, he reaches a large oaken double door, flanked by two guards. The guard who is escorting Kerko salutes them and walks back the way they came. One of the guards knocks on the door with the precision of a fine watch, and a stern voice bellows from the other side, “Let him in.” The guards open the door and direct him into the large office. Kerko looks around; taken aback, a fine red carpet is draped across the floor, elegant bookshelves cover the walls to either side, and a great number of filing cabinets are tucked away in the corner. Kerko is so taken aback that for a brief moment, he doesn’t realize where he is, but just as he begins to lose focus, he is brought to attention by a stern voice from across the room - one he recognizes instantly from several state broadcasts. “You’ve done an outstanding job, Mr. Petkovic.” He looks over at the desk and, as he makes eye contact with the tall man sitting behind it, he briefly freezes before bowing. “We have many people who would do anything to see to our demise, but with people like you, their work is all for nothing.” The words weigh heavily on Kerko; seconds feel like hours as he struggles to find the words. “Thank you, Your Highness, your words are too kind,” he says, realizing that in that moment - the longest of his life - he is speaking to the Crown Prince of the country, Bhiren Zanu.