The Fourth Patriot

The man being held in the cell, for all the simplicity of his birth name, was known as three people. The first no longer existed because of the second, and the second took precedent, if need be, even in the presence of the most recent third. The state of being many people at once was an accepted one in the New Light Era, but all three were currently failing him.

He counted his steps around his holding cell to see how many big, or small, steps it took to complete the circuit – a rather quaint activity, considering his circumstances of being held for a high crime that could very well have him hung if he didn’t play his cards right.

No one carrying an illegal weapon in the New Light Era – which was any weapon, really – could get away with it without losing a limb or their life, and while he didn’t consider himself idealistic, he was setting his sights on getting out of here with both.

He didn’t know how long he’d been here, and felt somewhat aggrieved he hadn’t even been afforded the opportunity to lose track of time, having been knocked unconscious before being locked up.

Since he woke up, he’d seen only one person – a low-ranking officer who demanded to know why was carrying a pistol when it had been outlawed five years ago. The officer tried intimidation, believing the man to have the dignity suitable to his size – that is, not very much. It was a common misconception, to believe his slight and short stature meant something about his self-worth. Men work very strangely, he’d thought idly as the officer stared him down.

‘Did you hear the question?!’ he demanded, grabbing him by his collar. ‘If you didn’t have a legitimate reason to be in possession of one, you could be hung tomorrow. What is your registration number?’

The man gentled peeled the officer’s fingers off his already stretched shirt. ‘Considering the person who reported me knocked me out clean, they clearly thought I had no legitimate reason. And took my identification with them.’

‘I’ll take that as confession, but I need a reason. Who are you? Are you affiliated with revolutionaries?’

‘Revolutionaries are a thing of the past.’ He answered breezily. ‘I’m not. I’ll speak to your commander.’

He raised a brow. ‘You think a crook of your standing could make such tall demands?’

‘An officer of your standing would regret not complying.’ The man smiles, and the officer was unnerved by its friendliness. ‘Let me speak to your commander.’

And what could throw a man off more than a friendly threat from a man sitting in a cell?

The officer left, and his silence told the man nothing about whether his request would be honoured. Little did the officer know that he had a much higher request to make – he needed to speak to the Luminary Council. Except, there wasn’t a person within a hundred-mile vicinity who’d take that seriously. No simple citizen had the audacity to request the presence of the greatest office of the New Light Era.

Over the next few days (and he could only presume that it’s been days), he grew to rather resent his little cell: empty, and made entirely of metal with the only entrance being a door that so easily camouflaged with the walls that he slept facing it so as not to forget its direction. The metal was dull, so he didn’t even have the pleasure of his own reflection for company – only his thoughts, which became increasingly delusional the more he paced. He took to sitting, and remained that way.

That is how the officers who came to bring his food found him each meal, this strange, small man with no name to give.

The first name by which he was known was Dinahi Meratan, though he hadn’t been called that in almost two decades. Names from the Old Era were no longer functional, for they incited division. Skin colour could hardly be illegalised, considering it was very much out of anybody’s hands (and oh, do the Luminary Council resent that fact), but culture certainly was. Differences had brought along the end of the world, and so the Luminary Council had outlawed cultural practises – and with it, people’s names – in a sweeping move to bring on peace.

Homogeny is peace, they’d say, and differences are chaos.

When the end of the world had come, chaos had wrung societies of peace and joy, brought down buildings’ centuries old, turned long-standing institutions into living legends. The Eon of Chaos – the period of tumultuous anarchy that existed in the in-between of the Old Era and the New Light Era – was in fact a misnomer. Though it had lasted only thirty-seven years, the cultural erasure was equivalent to losing millennials worth of knowledge. And along with a culture he never knew, a tongue he could never speak, Dinahi had lost his family to murderous mobs that thrived in the Eon of Chaos.

It was to this backdrop that he’d joined the House of Apostle at the age of twelve, and he took on his oath as the Fourth Patriot of the Light. One of twelve assassins trained in the art of killing, men created out of boys with only one purpose: to bring on the new era of Light.

For as long as it brings peace, I will be the Harbringer of Death to all that stands in its way.

And that’s just the funny thing about the light, isn’t it? For it to illuminate, the darkness must be eliminated. Life as a Fourth Patriot lasted only as long as the war for peace – ten years. A blink of an eye in the grand scheme of the world – but in the world of an assassin, ten years meant taking lives equating to centuries. The Fourth Patriot took hundreds of lives – obstacles, the House of Apostle had called them.

When the war ended and the Luminary Council took control, factions divided by ideology and united only by their cause for peace, the Twelve Patriots were undeniably one of the reasons for their success, but Harbingers of Death could hardly be celebrated among society. If citizens of the New Light Era were to discover that their government had achieved peace through murder…well.

Compensation came in another form – postings. High ranking appointments, and in the Fourth Patriot’s case, the role of chief of intelligence.

But he knew what that would mean. A legal means of being the Fourth Patriot; of having protection from the courts, because peace was now a matter of law, and nothing takes more precedence.

The other Patriots took the jobs. The ones who lived, anyway. They’d been raised and trained with weapons, and in an era where they were now illegal, there was no other way to maintain a connection to their identity. But he didn’t feel like that. The Fourth Patriot had died on the battlefield. Another casualty of the war effort, now a ghost of the Eon of Chaos.

And so he became who he was right now – a citizen of the New Light Era, known only by his registration. Citizen 931a.

Divisions are chaos, they’d repeated to him as they handed him his new identification. Homogeneity is the only means for peace. You could stay, to maintain peace as the Fourth Patriot if you wish it.

But how could he, when all he could see was blood? When he tasted it on his tongue, saw the world through shades of red, and his very hands shook even at the sight of a droplet of blood? No. His oath had come to an end. The Fourth Patriot was dead, and the dead must put down the weapons.

And as Citizen 931a walked away, from the House of Apostle that raised him, from the Luminary Council that used him, from the Fourth Patriot that defined him, and his pistol that completed him, he wondered at how it had cost them all nothing, and cost him everything.

In the years that passed, they never quite left him alone. He’d been followed from town to town, city to district, and wherever he was, rumours began anew – he’s one of the Patriots of the Light. Which?

The Second Patriot, the Vicious?

Seventh Patriot, the Brute?

No, Fourth Patriot, the Deadly.

It was a torment technique, he knew, designed to keep him docile, to remind him that even as a free citizen, he was always under their surveillance, their control, and their name.

But he would not cave. He couldn’t hold down a job, couldn’t convince any inn to take him in longer than a night, but his determination to be free, to live, was stronger than their dogged attempts to bring him back.

It was their plan, for any Patriot that strayed too far was a liability, a secret vulnerable to exposure by anyone determined to delegitimise the Council. But he wasn’t reckless, Citizen 931a. He didn’t so much as touch a tool sharper than a butter knife.

And so, it begged the question of why he was where he was right now, sitting in a cell, growing delusional with silence as his fate awaited him outside that door.

The reason for why he had a weapon came in the form of the packaged letter that contained it – signed off from the Luminary Council.

The Ninth Patriot has gone rogue. We’re enlisting your services one last time. Complete this mission, and you will be free.

And there it was, his old pistol, and unbidden, he saw and tasted blood. He swallowed, blinked the image away, and ran his fingers over its familiar ridges.

One last mission. And freedom forever.

The Luminary Council new him well. Too well.

They knew he wanted his freedom above all else.

But too well was simply not enough.

What could politicians understand of brotherhood?

And so he became the Fourth Patriot once more, found his brother in arms who he hadn’t seen in years.

‘Come to kill me?’ The Ninth Patriot, the Sly, asked.

‘I’ve come to give you an opportunity.’

And so was his plan to pretend that he killed him, so he could disappear into the night forever and live his peace, to live in a way the Fourth hadn’t been able to.

Except, in his moment of weakness, of desperation, he didn’t sense his own attacker coming from behind. All he remembered was a white-hot pain, and his vision faded to black.

As he sat in his cell now, he contemplated what truly awaited him out there.

He didn’t know if the Ninth Patriot made his escape. He didn’t know if he should lie to the Council – they needed only count his bullets to know he hadn’t taken a single shot. He didn’t even know if they would come, whether the commandant would bestow him a visit long enough for him to convince him that calling the Council was the right decision.

All he knew was right now, where the cold metal was searing his bare feet, and the door grew blurred with his effort to keep his eyes open.

Any minute now, he was sure. Any minute, someone would come.

The possibilities were endless.

The commandant could come, and he would listen.

The Luminary Council could hear his call, and he could lie, and they could pardon him.

The Luminary Council could hear his call, and send another Patriot to kill him for deigning to lie.

The Luminary Council could hear his call, and they could ignore it.

Or officer could come back and take him to be hung without having ever considered anything else.

And in the fog of his chambered mind, he heard what he thought was the first whispers of falling into a dream. Click.

A screech of metal.

His eyes flew open as he watched the door push open. His blood pumped in his ears, his breath cold, and he waited to see who would emerge.