In the early days, when Father still made public speeches and the school curriculum hadn't been corrected quite as minutely as it should have been, he wrote an analysis of the Nazi regime, specifically Kristallnacht, the role of emotion therein, and how history could have been improved if Prozium had been discovered earlier. He received high marks for his use of language and logic, which was remarkable; history was usually his most mediocre subject.
His father took the paper from his hand (three pages, one staple at a neat 45 degree angle in the corner) and inspected the grade, nodding approval. "I'm very happy for you, John." he said, in the tone one always used for meaningless pleasantries. "It's good to see your schoolwork improving."
For the first time, his mind remarked on that polite little phrase, with its key word that smacked of emotion. He retreated to his room while his mother and father talked about his educational prospects and asked the computer to define the word for him. Its thoroughly pleasant but emotionally devoid voice recited:
hap·py
adj. hap·pi·er, hap·pi·est
Characterized by good
luck; fortunate.
Enjoying, showing, or marked by pleasure, satisfaction, or
joy.
Being especially well-adapted; felicitous: a happy turn of
phrase.
Cheerful; willing: happy to help.
He resolved to never use that expression himself. It toed the line of sense offense, and even then he knew it was wrong.
Once, his wife whispered to him as they lay entwined, their hair tangled together and skin cooling in the dry air. The first time they had engaged in intercourse, shortly after their mandated marriage, he'd closely examined each thought and action, searching for some betraying hint of feeling. He'd come to the conclusion that it was mostly a mechanical act, a pleasurable one in the physical sense. Not dangerous at all.
Now, he held his wife as their breathing slowed. It seemed the right thing to do. She was a close acquaintance, and someone he was duty bound to protect, just as he protected all citizens. She traced the lines of his muscles with light fingertips, an act he found vaguely disturbing. She was a good citizen, though. She wouldn't do anything illegal, would she?
Teetering on the edge of sleep, she murmured against his shoulder. He had to strain to make out, "You make me so happy."
Shock clenched his stomach. Only one conclusion came to mind; it was only too possible that she had been asked to test him. He was under consideration for advancement in the ranks as a Cleric. He was closely watched. And so he said nothing.
Sixteen days later, she was arrested for her sense crimes. As he watched the black uniformed guards escort her down the hall, he realized that he couldn't remember what color her eyes were.
Mary's eyes, though, he always remembered. They were etched into his mind, and he saw them every time he slept. Some nights, they were full of suspicion. Others, they looked into the heart he hadn't realized was his until much later. Once, they were the soft blue-grey of the stormy sea that he remembered from an oil painting that he'd ordered destroyed.
She'd watched him and asked, her voice soft and terrible, "Do you know what it is to be happy? To be sad?"
He'd been confused. Off the Prozium by then, he still didn't understand the shocks of emotion that ran through his veins at the oddest things; the scent of perfume, the color of a sunrise. "I don't know," he'd answered, truthfully.
"Some day you will," she said, "I promise. And then you'll understand."
"Understand what?"
"You already know some things are worth dying for. What do you know that's worth living for?"
He'd shook his head, adding another to the list of questions she'd asked that he had no answer for. That was the best dream of Mary he had.
Most of the time, he remembered Mary's eyes, wide with terror, and then the flame that ate her like a living thing. He remembered emotional pain that tore at him physically, forcing him to his knees. In those dreams, Brandt was dressed in white and had no eyes, only black, sightless pits. As Brandt's granite fist came crashing down on his skull, his last thought would always be that all the happiness had burned away as well.
The sunset that day was like flames gently lapping at the buildings and stretching fingers across the sky. He watched the Prozium factories explode into yet more plumes of fire, and felt a certain hard satisfaction fill him. The bullet graze on his neck and wrist throbbed in time with his heartbeat, drumming the resistance out into the streets, where they opened fire. He wondered if this was what Mary had meant, idly twining her red ribbon around his fingers.
Even as he wondered, he knew the answer. This wasn't something that men wrote poetry about or women attempted to transfer into watercolors. It was a job well done, a case closed, a terrible mistake corrected. He'd felt this way often enough as a Cleric, even if it had been muted under a thousand layers of cotton wool.
He dropped his empty clips out of the window and watched them shatter on the sidewalk below. That too, was satisfying, even as he slipped his guns back into their holsters.
The guns, he kept, always loaded and ready though he could never really explain why. They sat on the mantle of his new apartment, a place of honor they'd been given on the day he'd gotten rid of his uniforms and everything else that had marked him as a cleric. They'd been taken to one of the large bonfires where people were joyfully throwing all of the propaganda and old uniforms. He hadn't been able to force himself to watch.
He watched Robbie walk in, home from school. The boy took his usual detour by the guns, brushing his fingers against them ("Strength and good luck," he'd once explained) then joined his father on the sofa. The massive black faux-leather affair faced the window, which boasted a view of the entire city, shining in the afternoon rain. There were no television screens in the new apartment, and he was pleased to note that neither of the children objected.
"We got our art projects back today, dad." Robbie said.
Art projects. It still seemed so strange, at times. The children were adapting much more quickly than he; that was to be expected. "How did you do?"
"Full marks. The teacher said that my use of color and perspective was very advanced."
He smiled, idly reaching out to ruffle Robbie's hair. The boy only put up a token fight. "Are you ready to show me the picture, then, or is it still a secret project?"
"Not secret any more. If Mr. Ascot liked it, I think it's good enough to show you." Robbie handed the picture over, his smile becoming a trifle nervous and uncertain.
He looked down at the picture and couldn't trust himself to speak. His hands shook, as did his shoulders. When his son tried to take the picture back, murmuring soothing noises, he only shook his head, not letting go. He looked at himself, drawn with the perfection only love could see, smiling and leaning against a tree with his wife. Her eyes were closed, but she smiled, reaching out to touch his hand.
"I had to draw mom from a picture," Robbie said, perhaps uncomfortable with the silence, "I had a hard time remembering how her hair was. Do you like it? Is it okay? You're not mad, right?"
"No, not mad," he murmured. When he looked at his son, though his eyes shone with restrained tears, he smiled. "It's very good. You have talent." He traced the lines of his wife's hair with one finger. "Thank you."
"Thanks for what, dad?"
He only smiled in answer. He remembered the color of her eyes now, and he understood.