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Cruel Means, Bitter Ends by Marin Biliškov
“In order for this speech to mean anything to me, I’ll need to dispense with the usual demagoguery and, instead, make an attempt at honesty. With this in mind, there is one thing I have to make clear. I’m not in this race to serve your interests, but rather, and perhaps selfishly, my own. Some thirty years ago my hometown of Elden was destroyed in what was then the worst New Anglian attack of the decade. My home was destroyed, my parents killed, and my innocence taken. Ever since, all I’ve cared about is the war, our war.
“The war has been dragging on for so long that it feels like it might stay with us forever. An infected wound that refuses to heal, a fate beyond escape. Personally, I think forever is too long a time for something so horrible to exist. I think that it’s our duty as people, as humans, to end the suffering it causes and that is my one and only dream.
I think that it’s our duty as people, as humans, to end the suffering it causes.
“For that dream—for that hope, I joined the military. I fought, and I killed, and I bled, and the more I rose through the ranks, the more the frontlines shifted towards the New Anglians. At the time, I thought I could work my way up high enough the chain of command to end the war on my talent as a commander alone, but I was a fool. Our advance stopped cold at the Eastern Alps, fortified, nearly impassable. At that moment, I realized that in order to win a thousand-year long conflict, tactics aren’t enough, cleverness is not enough. No amount of purely martial skill will lead to victory. What we need instead is a change of approach, and something like that is not determined by men in uniforms, but men in suits.
“I ask you all to think of your sons and your daughters, of your mothers and your fathers, as they have all been touched by this war, all of us have been touched by it. I cannot promise you safety, prosperity, or happiness, but what I can promise you is that a vote for me is as sure a step towards the end of this war as any. If elected, before the end of my first term, I promise we’ll be writing the eulogy of a nation.”
As his far-too-wide sleeve caught on the cup, spilling coffee all over his desk, and knocking over several stacks of paperwork, Albert once again found himself regretting his life choices. The life of a Principality bureaucrat had never been easy, but the sheer amount of work that was piled on his desk would have already driven him mad if not for the fact that he had no free time in which to actually go mad.
When John rose to the position of Prime Minister, he brought several of his former military subordinates along for the ride. “Of course, John,” they’d chorused, “it’s an honor, John.” Perhaps they’d have thought twice about the offer if they knew it came with a demotion from human to workhorse. Do this, go there, prepare that. Blah, blah, blah. Of course, all of it was work that needed to be done, but half of it was hardly what you would call “high priority.”
And now this atrocity that dared to call itself “proper attire” had bared its fangs once more, adding yet more hours to his already heavy workload. He had never been at all fond of the thing. The padded shoulders made for an unbearable summer, and while tradition was all well and good, was it really necessary to utilize seventeen leather straps? His petitions to have the outfit simplified were so readily rejected that he half suspected enemy action.
He sat there, stewing in frustration and as good as cursing the day he’d accepted the job when he caught sight of it. It laid there, on the floor amongst the many, many coffee-stained papers, hidden like a particularly vicious and crafty snake amongst the grass. At first glance it looked as unremarkable as any other piece of paperwork but, in truth, it held deeper meaning.
Last week he had received a memo informing him that minor details of Operation Swift Wind had been leaked to the New Anglians. That was bad, but the information in the leak was not of vital importance. Now, staring him right in the face, was a report he’d commissioned from the committee on state secrets. A report which concluded, in bold lettering no less, that the information disclosed could have only been known to officials working in the office of the prime minister at the time of the leak.
He stared at it. And stared. And stared some more. He would need to fire whoever was responsible for something this important being at the bottom of his paperwork pile, but that would have to be saved for later. With Operation Swift Wind only three days away, the possibility of a spy so high up in the chain of command was terrifying. An investigation into who supplied that information had to be started at once. He’d need to go straight to the top and get John’s approval to circumvent the usual process, and investigate his pet bureaucrats immediately.
Not wanting to waste time on booking an appointment through John’s secretary, he made straight for his office, never an unwelcome guest. He made his way through the richly decorated halls, buzzing with officials who were all just as busy as he was. John’s talent for administration was nearly as great as his skill at military command.
His administration was more like a menagerie of busybodies, an odd mixture of your every-day workaholics, worshipful ideologues, and those personally loyal to him and him alone, the common factor being, of course, a willingness to work unreasonable hours and follow orders without complaint, or at least without too much complaint. All in all, he found the atmosphere rather comforting, even if he sometimes felt like an animal in someone’s personal zoo. Perhaps he ought to have his office nameplate changed to Canis albertus? Would that be funny, or too on the nose?
The prime minister’s office, while not as lavish as the halls, was in no way spartan in its decor. The walls were richly upholstered, their lining meticulously selected for its sound dampening properties in a bid to thwart any would-be eavesdroppers. There were no windows, the room instead lit by bright, electric light. It had two doors, one being the main entrance, and the other leading to an attached bathroom.
In the center of the room stood a heavy, somewhat ornate wooden desk, tastefully decorated to reflect its owner’s position, and behind that, seated on a padded, ebony-wood chair, was the heart of the nation’s administration—prime minister Johnathan Hyde himself.
While Albert had been making his discovery, John had been ironing out the final details needed for Operation Swift Wind to move forward. It was, after all, the foundation he had laid for the end of their conflict with the Theocratic Republic of New Anglia.
He was just finishing the final signature. One last flourish of the pen before curtain call. He had to have been on it for at least the last half-hour. He was being overly careful, he knew, stalling really. With one final, carefully planned and flawlessly executed stroke of the pen, he finished the signature. It was artful, really. Important things ought to be beautiful, oughtn’t they?
Even though these final little details were mere formalities, emotionally, it still felt like a great weight was put on his shoulders. This was a plan of his own design, and yet... It was still difficult to make his peace with it, no matter his choices. Unfortunately, Guilt was an emotion he was all too used to.
All was in place. There was nothing more to do now, but wait for the inevitable. Suddenly, he felt the urge to fidget in his seat. Was it really possible to be so old, and yet feel like a child faced with his umpteenth dentist’s appointment? To be so nervous about something entirely predictable and, at this point, completely mundane?
Fortunately, he was distracted from his anxiety by the door opening, and closing only so tardily as to allow one person entrance. When he looked to check who had entered, he was treated to Albert’s wiry figure. It wasn’t unusual for him to come in to complain, often unannounced, sometimes justified, he really did oftentimes demand something unreasonable even by his own standards. Either way, he welcomed the distraction.
“John,” greeted Albert, “state secrets have been spilling straight from your desk! I know this is against usual procedure, but I have to ask you to let me investigate your office at once! If information from this high up in the chain of command is getting to the Anglians, we need to take action without delay.”
Oh. That was… unexpected, but he was already old hat at dealing with situations of this nature. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, though it might very well be the last. He followed the usual playbook. Exploit their trust, get them vulnerable, ensure you can go on. The additional guilt he felt at betraying his best friend was like a grain of sand being added to a mountain.
“I already know all about it, Albert. This is a matter best discussed in the bathroom, I believe. Don’t question it, just get in, and I’ll explain later. We really shouldn’t talk in here.”
There, hopefully he’ll think the room is bugged. Perhaps it wasn’t his craftiest moment, but it didn’t really matter as long as he did as instructed.
Never having been one to waste time, Albert hurried into the bathroom, nearly tripping over the hem of his coat as he entered. As Albert turned, righting himself from his stumble, he saw John right behind him, standing just shy of the doorway with an inscrutable expression on his face.
“What is it—”
He shut the door right in Albert’s face, leaving him alone in the darkness of the bathroom. Albert was not surprised when the lock clicked shut.
“I’m sorry, Albert,” He muttered into the door
“What’s going on, John? I don’t understand why you’ve locked me in here.”
“When I picked people for ministerial positions, I picked people that I thought I could trust to do their jobs well—”
“I’m not a traitor, John.”
From Albert’s point of view, that must have been the simplest explanation.
“Believe me, this would be easier if you were. Instead you were too good at your job, too loyal, too devoted. I was sure that the busywork I gave you would have bought me a few more days, and by then it would have already been too late.”
It’s too late even now. Even if Albert could escape, he couldn’t cause anything other than a minor disruption to his plans. It was over, it was all over. At this point, the only thing that could be changed was how messily it ended.
“I really don’t understand where you’re going with this. What kind of ploy is this, and why do you sound so genuinely remorseful?”
“I’m sorry I betrayed your trust, Albert. I’m sorry I betrayed everyone’s trust. When I made that now famous, soon to be infamous campaign speech, I thought it would make me feel better. I thought that I could trick myself out of my guilt with surface level honesty, but I was wrong. I’ve been wrong a lot in my life.”
“What are you—”
“I’m the one who told the Anglians.”
There was a sudden silence at the other end of the door, Albert had to be taking it all in. He knew it well, that feeling when the world was not as you imagined, when you realized it was a dark, and cruel place, often unjust to you in particular.
“I don’t believe it,” said Albert after a long pause, “You’ve killed them in droves. You know they’ll have you executed if they win, along with others, many others, people you care about. Besides, why would you betray us right before we dealt the final blow. Swift Wind will—”
“Swift Wind was always doomed to fail. I doctored the intelligence reports, the Anglians were never dumb enough to leave a gap like that in their defenses.”
It didn’t come as a surprise that Albert wasn’t getting it. His behavior truly went beyond the realm of common sense, and he had lied on top of that. Lied frequently, and lied well. You can only be fed so many lies, before the truth starts to seem off. But there was no point in lying anymore—to Albert at least. He was trapped here, in this soundproof room, unable to do anything other than to wait for a rescue that would come too late—was already too late. So he’d be honest, and hope that he would finally feel catharsis in place of guilt. He didn’t expect life to be so kind as to let him.
“If this were all actually true, and I doubt it, you wouldn’t be telling me this. I know you, you’d have locked me in here and said nothing, just in case. Just tell me what you’re plotting, I can help.”
Albert was right, that was certainly what he would do in a situation where he had some sort of clever plot. He’d lied to his troops to give the enemy faulty intelligence lots of times, but there was no clever plot here, no neat resolution. Only a messy end to a long and difficult journey.
“You’re right about that.”
“Then—”
“But there’s a reason I’m telling you anyway. Our friendship means something to me, and—and—this is the last time we’ll ever talk. This is goodbye. This is the end. I’ve given them all the details they need to encircle the force participating in Swift Wind. I’ll be there, amongst the troops when they encircle us. They’ll kill me then, I think, and that’ll be that. I’ve already made sure they know everything about our defenses that they need to, so it’ll all be smooth sailing from there. The war will be over in a matter of weeks.”
“If that’s true, and I’m still skeptical, why are you doing this? The Anglians killed your parents, burned your town, they even started this whole mess with their ‘holy’ war! You’d be letting them win, letting us suffer. I know you aren’t like that. You wouldn’t let bad men prevail, and you have a vendetta on top of that.”
Now that, that was wrong. He hated the way they destroyed innocent lives. He hated that they kept this war going. He hated how they made him feel, but to hate a person, to have a vendetta? He could never do that, he didn’t have it in him, but there was some truth there still.
“I used to feel the same. We are clearly in the right here. They’re the ones who started the war, who burned our towns, who killed our friends and family. I joined the military because I wanted to put an end to that, because we were right, because we were just. They were the aggressors, not us.
“I believed, still believe, that what they’re doing to us is unjust, evil, but I cannot possibly convey to you the feeling I had when I first stepped on the battlefield, of when we torched supply lines knowing people would starve, of when we shelled towns because there were enemy fighters hidden there, of realizing that I was holding the very same rifle that killed my parents.
“There is no doubt that they’re evil people, people who hate us and want to ruin our lives over their own petty delusions, but how much are we allowed to destroy in order to defend ourselves? How many lives can we snuff in self-defense, before it becomes a battle of black on black? If a hundred people try to kill you, and you kill them instead, have you not just done a hundred times worse than they would have?
“In the end, it’s as much our stubbornness as theirs that keeps the war going, we destroy the lives of others to preserve our own. I’ve thought about it long and hard, wishing it wasn’t true, but it is. Even if you’re right, even if you’re as sinless as a saint, pushing your suffering onto others isn’t just. It’s never just, even if it’s to the people who’re hurting you. Even if they are evil, terrible men.
“An unfeeling world has left us with only two choices, both impossibly cruel. We either create injustice, or suffer it ourselves. I’ve already made my choice, I’ve made all our choices, and I’m sorry for that, but I’d do it again. They’re not going to give up, so we have to. If anyone is ever going to be happy, evil has to prevail.”
“If anyone is ever going to be happy, evil has to prevail.”
And there it was. He felt ever so slightly lighter, ever so slightly freer now that he’d finally put it to words. Now that he’d expressed his years-long struggle with the cruelty of the world. There were no pretty solutions, no fairytale endings, no happily-ever-afters, there was only a choice as to the extent of suffering.
After his monologue, all was silent for a while. It was not unexpected. After all, he would have been a fool to think that being sacrificed for the good of people you despised would feel like anything other than horrific betrayal. He expected neither pity, sympathy or compassion, only disdain.
It took a while, but eventually, Albert spoke again.
“John, Please. Let me out of here. I need you to realize that you are not well. These thoughts you’re having, they’re not normal, they’re not even sane. No one sane thinks you should just let people hurt you just so they can be happy. You’re suffering from something, maybe it’s depression, maybe not, but you need help. Just look at you, you’re literally suicidal! We can cover this up if we act now, it’ll be a huge political flop, but you won’t face persecution. Please, please don’t let this—this thing control you. If you trust these thoughts of yours, you’ll be ruining the lives of the thousands who put their trust in you. Don’t let this become a tragedy. For once, John, I’m asking you to trust me.”
Sometimes, we have to be cruel to be kind. Impossibly cruel.
“I think you’re right. Normal people don’t think this way.”
“Then—”
“—but I think that, deep down, maybe unlike others, I really do believe that all people are equal and deserving of our compassion. No matter what they’ve done—or will do. I think that normal people, healthy people, think that they believe this, but they don’t, not really. They’re healthy enough to, perhaps only unconsciously, ignore the obvious conclusions. To turn a blind eye, from a reality that would destroy them, like it destroyed me. After all, only insane people think things that would hurt them, don’t they?”
With that parting phrase, John left, a sigh of resignation escaping his lips. Albert waited, for a time, composing his thoughts, but as the silence went on, he began to worry. “John?” called Albert, but there was no reply to be had. “John, John!” he repeated, loud and desperate, but no matter how loudly he yelled, or how hard he banged, there was no response. He could only wait, powerless to stop his friend, a man driven mad by his convictions.
Discussion Questions (Leave a comment!)
Do you agree with the Prime Minister’s logic and choice in ending the war?
If the fastest way to end a war is to lose, what would be a good reason to continue fighting anyway? What would be a good reason to hurry the loss? What is the distinguishing factor(s) that make you choose one over the other in any given situation?
The Prime Minister argues that sometimes it is wrong to continue fighting evil aggressors. When, if ever, should you stop fighting an evil aggressor? What is the logical conclusion in global affairs if every country followed the Prime Minister’s logic?
Are the Prime Minister’s actions, turning on his country, and putting himself on the front line to die in the failed mission, brave?
Does the Prime Minister have an obligation to continue to try to win the war (even if it causes more suffering), if that is the reason people voted him into office?
Check out the podcast discussion video!
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