Praeceptum - Fictioneer Conflict Prompt Contest Entry

Alistair waited for her feet to be thoroughly worshiped, until it became annoying. "Speak. What is your petition?"

"No petition, Oh Marvelous Peacemaker." The Chief Servant dared to look upon his ruler's face. "I come only to report upon the state of your neverending kingdom."

"Very well." Alistair sighed. How tedious.

"Everything is perfect, Majesty, just as you have decreed it must be." The Servant abased himself again.

"The tribute? Is it satisfactory?" Surely one of the distant continents was shirking by now. The world was so big, and she the only one to rule it. Of course they would dare defy her command!

"More than satisfactory, High Mistress. In fact, Australia sent double the required amount, a gift in honour of their great love for you."

Alistair grunted. That was unexpected, but reasonable. Australia was seeing exponential gains under her command. "What about the Orient? Are the controls finally in place?" The Oriental controls, her most ambitious decree to date, would be the true indicator of human loyalty.

"Naturally, Peacemaker. The incinerators had to turn some of the men away in the end, their quotas already filled. Overall numbers are sustainable. Male to female ratio has been corrected. Your projections indicate that families could begin raising two children from now on." With an ingratiating smile, he added. "The African protocols are also a success, just as you said they would be."

Alistair chewed the inside of her lip. "I see. What of the Americas?"

“They eagerly prepare for your state visit. It is their great opportunity to prove how quickly uncivilized backwaters can be reformed under your perfect rule.” The Servant hesitated. “If I may be so bold, High Mistress, I find it most distressing that you would choose such an unprestigious place to celebrate--.”

“You may not be so bold,” Alistair spat.

“I have displeased you, Majesty. Forgive me.” The Chief Servant immediately drew his ceremonial knife and slit his throat. Alistair watched impassively until the twitching ceased. “Your distress is noted,” she said with contempt. A movement of her finger summoned four smiling courtiers, who bore the body away and scoured the floor clean in happy silence.

Cold fury settled into her stomach. Disgusting. Alistair hated this, could bear it no longer. She rose from her throne and strode across the gleaming marble floors. The door to her private chambers slid open at her touch. No guards stood here, there was no need for such. She was the Peacemaker. Everyone loved her.

Three body servants, all girls under the age of ten, curtsied deeply when she entered. “What is your wish, High Mistress?” the eldest asked.

“Nothing. I have no further need of you.” Three knives moved in unison. Alistair hurried past their gurgling bodies, keeping her dainty white shoes out of the spreading pool of blood.

Twenty-five years. Alistair wrenched open the secret door behind her bed. Twenty-five years of perfection and peace. For what? For her servants to question something so trivial as where she celebrated her Jubilee? How had he managed to protest at all? She descended the dust-covered stairs and held back angry sobs. Somewhere, her vision had gone awry.

It took a long time to reach the Praeceptum. It hadn’t always been so far away, not when she had first built it. It was on the surface then, where she could watch over it. Her gift to the world, her answer for all the brokenness. She had been so afraid of losing it. Steps gave way to a long corridor. Sweat and filth coated her garments. She had buried it deep, safe, down where its soothing vibrations could be felt throughout the globe.

It was her crowning achievement, literally; when she had turned it on, the nations trampled one another in their rush to fall at her feet. Their wars had all ceased within hours. No word that fell from her lips was taken as less than divine wisdom. Everyone agreed. Everyone obeyed. Men, women, children, they had died joyfully, whenever necessary, to bring about the Perfect Peace.

No, it wasn’t peace. It was a world full of puppets.

Her fingers caressed the cobweb-covered crystal. Hot, angry tears cut through the dust on Alistair’s face. “It’s all my fault. This isn’t what I wanted,” she whispered.

She shut off the Praeceptum and drew her ceremonial knife.