Leader Academy
If you are not a billionaire, life is much tougher under a fascist king in a church state that denies science, logic, and democracy. If any gods really exist, let us pray that this King and his Leaders FOREVER remain fictional.
My name is Julian Green. I’m a senior Cadet in the Holy Parish 417 Leader Academy. I share a classroom with 15 other cadets. Our strict discipline requires that we are always uncomfortable. Therefore, every classroom in this old, prewar building is too hot in summer and too cold in winter. We joke that even our protectors (security robots) don’t feel comfortable here.
I secretly hate being a cadet. Why? Possible reasons include:
* I’m easily bored.
* I don’t trust authority.
* I have too few friends.
* I have too many private opinions.
Maybe I simply ‘don’t fit in.’ All my classmates claim their fathers are Leaders; mine is ‘only’ a scientist. Their mothers are often judges; mine is ‘only’ a priest.
Our academy is on the western border of our parish. Each parish is built around a church that belongs to His Majesty’s National Church network. In all parishes, inhabitants are mostly white citizens. In all areas outside the parishes, inhabitants are mostly non-white losers. The National Church teach us that losers are not fully human.
After I graduate, I will have a Leader commission signed by our King. I will also wear the all-black Leader uniform that has been designed to scare everyone, especially losers. I will have full authority to kill any loser, any time, for any reason. This disturbs me, but I dare tell no one.
Moe, our protector, stands motionless at the front-right corner of our classroom. He moves and/or speaks only when necessary.
We are waiting for our professor. As usual, he is late. Finally, Moe announces that our Leader is ill (hungover again?) and we’ll have a substitute. This is bad news; substitute Leaders are often too strict. Too often, they are sadistic ‘tough’ guys.
Our substitute Leader enters carrying a briefcase and a bamboo cane. He’s wearing the all-black Leader uniform that seems designed to frighten most people, especially cadets. He’s tall, and very old, probably in his seventies. Taking his time to scan the room, he glares at each of us separately. He seems to stagger slightly as walks to his desk. He sits, opens his briefcase, removes a few papers and studies them briefly.
He looks up. “So, you kids think you’re going to graduate and become Leaders? Never assume anything. Let’s see how qualified you think you are.”
He looks down, apparently at a seating chart, and then looks directly at me. “Green! What are the main duties of every Leader?”
I stand at attention instantly. “Sir! A Leader is a National Church officer who serves the King, and protects citizens and their wealth against all losers.”
He stands and walks around his desk to approach me. “How does he serve His Majesty?’
“Sir! By always honoring and respecting our King, and making sure all citizens do likewise.”
“Good, so far. But how does a Leader protect our citizens?”
“Sir! By example. A Leader demonstrates self discipline, faith in God and his National Church, and loyalty to the King and his government.”
“Wrong! Loser! We Leaders never demonstrate ‘self discipline.’ We demand respect from citizens and obedience from losers. Sit down!”
I sit, but foolishly try to disagree. “Sir! Self discipline seems necessary before we can even ask for respect, let alone demand . . .”
He swings his bamboo cane at my head, but I see it in time to duck. He swings again, striking me across my back. It stings like hell, but I remain silent. In this academy, reacting to pain is an unforgivable weakness. I wish I could punch his red nose. Though he’s old and weak, I remind myself he still has lethal authority.
He takes me to the whiteboard, makes me lock my fingers behind my back, and then pushes my forehead against the whiteboard. “Stay there until I give you permission to move.”
He turns to the class and laughs. “Now, the rest of you losers, write a 1000-word essay about the evils during the prewar chaos. Explain how National Church policies have delivered us from liberalism and atheism. When you finish your essays, send them to my address code, which I’ll put on the whiteboard.”
Within a few minutes, I hear him place his briefcase on his desk, open it, and then remove several items. I also hear him unscrew the metal cup of a thermos, remove its stopper, and then pour liquid into the cup. I expect to smell coffee, but I smell bourbon. This might not be such a bad day after all. From experience, we cadets know that drunken Leaders sleep quite deeply.
After about half an hour, the Leader starts snoring. While he’s sleeping, I know I can safely sit on the chair that’s close to the whiteboard. As I turn around, I see he has slumped over his desk, and nested his head on his crossed arms. I sit, relax, and wait.
He suddenly stops snoring. I scurry back to the whiteboard because he might have awakened. When I look again at the old fart, he hasn’t moved. I stand behind his chair, reach over his back, and tap his shoulder. After he fails to respond, I grab his shoulder and shake it vigorously. Again, he doesn’t move. I turn to Moe. “See if this Leader is only sleeping.”
Moe approaches the desk and asks, “Sir, are you able to hear me?” No answer. He feels the left side of the Leader’s neck. He then addresses the class, “This Leader is dead. I am now recording evidence. I have called administration. They are sending a Leader. Wait here until he arrives.”
A Leader walks in and announces the start of an official death investigation. He pours the remaining bourbon back into the dead Leader’s thermos, and then gives it to Moe. “Take this to security, dispose of it discreetly, and then return here.” Leaders are careful to always protect one another’s ‘good’ reputations.
We start whispering among ourselves. The Leader turns to us. “Cadets! Silence! Be quiet until we determine how this Leader has died. Do NOT talk among yourselves.”
Two medical robots enter with a gurney with which they remove the body. They take it to administration for an autopsy.
As soon as Moe returns, the Leader addresses the class. “Cadets, did any of you have a dispute with the departed Leader?”
My classmates point at me, and say, almost in unison, “Sir! He did!” I’m astonished and angry, but I try to not show my feelings.
The Leader orders Moe to arrest me and take me security, which is in a separate modern building. While we’re walking to security, I start imagining my death by firing squad, which makes me shiver. Moe notices my shivering. “Do not worry. Many similar Leader deaths were due to natural causes.” Sarcastically, I ask, “How do you know?” He replies, “Protectors share data.”
I spend four days in a cell while a court of three judges and two Leaders conduct my trial. Finally, Moe arrives with good news. “The court has found you innocent of homicide. The autopsy indicates that the elderly leader had died of heart failure.”
“Ah! Does this mean I’m free? May I return to class?”
“No. The court has found you guilty of negligent manslaughter because you deliberately argued with and provoked the Leader, which upset him so much his heart failed. You have been banished from Holy Parish 417 and all other parishes. I will take you into loser territory, and help you find work.”
The academy confiscates all my uniforms and gives me worker clothing. I’m no longer a citizen. I’m now a loser.
Moe drives me deep into loser territory. The car is small and the roads are old. I feel every bump. Of course, he doesn’t notice them.
I ask where he’s taking me. He says he knows of a communal farm that I might like.
“But I don’t like being outside, and I don’t like too much sun.”
“You are young. You can adapt to being outside. Wear a hat to protect against the sun. Be happy to be alive. If you had not had a perfect performance record, the King’s court might have found you guilty of homicide. You would have been shot.”
I’m pleasantly surprised when we arrive the Vegan Calf Ranch. It has approximately 250 residents, men and women of varying colors and ages. Goddamn the King and his UNholy Leaders; there’s not a single loser in sight! I’m not a loser, I’m a human being who no longer needs to be ‘Leader tough.’ I can allow myself to be as humane as I choose.
For some reason, maybe relief and/or hope, I begin to cry. I can‘t remember crying since early childhood. Some of my new colleagues gather around to comfort me. One points to Moe, who’s standing by the door.
“Sorry everyone. I need to return the car to the poor Leaders.” I walk over to him and ask, “How can a machine be sarcastic? Don’t you respect the Leaders?”
“Julian, by asking those questions, you are being sarcastic. Seriously, you have much to learn about reality. I am certain your new friends will help.”
People clap and cheer as Moe walks out. Some of us follow him into the parking area. As he drives away, he waves. We wave back.
