Like most senior peacekeepers awaiting a new commission, I attend the chamber in District 2, which is where most of us come from. There is recruitment in almost every single district, but there recruits are only selected for specialized skills; recruits from District 9 for their knowledge with flora and from District 10 with animal life. District 2 recruits make up the bulk of the unspecialized portion of peacekeepers. It's an onerous buden that my District has carried out since the end of the Dark Days, when President Narita devolved the task of peacekeeping to us. The deal, to anyone who is politically literate, is that District 2 gets to run the peacekeepers, suffer all the infamy and resentment, and bear the brunt of all the revolts, and the Capitol gets the goods, the goods of luxury goods and opulent living. Technically, the President appoints the senior officers, but in reality he has few options other than those presented to him. We have strict rules as to the qualifications of senior officers, which have been approved by the President already, in the interest in continuity of administration and sound government.
I have been a Deputy Head Peacekeeper in District 3, 8, 10, and 11, with a very clean record showing unimpeachable integrity and good service to the Capitol, so it's now my turn to be Head Peacekeeper. I've been sounded out about this by the Principal Secretary of Peacekeeping about two months ago, and I've been diligently attending the Chamber every day since.
The Chamber of Peacekeeping occupies almost the entire east wing of the Justice Building of District 2, cloaked in imperial glory and dominating the public square. Administratively, we're divided into the central offices (located in District 2) and the field offices (peacekeeper offices in each district, including District 2). The peacekeeper office of District 2 is a field office, not a central one. There are four divisions centrally; they are the divisions of recruitment and appraisal, equipment and technology, logistics, and judicial administration divisions –
"Kimimaro!" A fmiliar voice called out from the other side of the hall, dotted with comfy sofas, the newspapers fresh off the press, and a few television sets in the corners. The décor is antique, but it has no boastful motifs or garish colours. A pleasant, gentle pale green is the dominant theme, leaving the more intense shades for the potted plants that divide up the great room into several sitting areas. Despite being mostly green, this room was somehow quite warm in atmosphere.
This pleasantly wide man is my friend, Uemaro Ashimari. He's the uncle of Kirimaro Ashimari, our most recent victor, who won around 13 years ago. Kirimaro himself is now floating around in the Chamber of Privy Affairs. The two junior peacekeepers, in a blazing white, heaved four heavy leather-bound cases, presumably filled with paperwork, behind him, who sported a nifty red gown, the mark of his rank, Deputy Secretary. After the Dark Days, the civil service of District 2 was divided into 9 ranks. Each rank was divisible into senior and junor classes. Under the Fourth Rank, each class was also divisible into permanent and provisional steppings, for a total of 30 steppings across the entire rank structure. As you can see, we are a very rank-oriented group, which is somewhat accurately perceived by outsiders.
"Deputy Secretary Chief of Division of Judicial Administration Ashimari Uemaro of Nakahara Asomi," I enunciated every syllable of his full title and name, to give some warranted contrast with his casual pelting of my first name, "how are you this morning?"
"Deputy Secretary – nothing – Katsuragi Kimimaro of Kibi Asomi, I am fine this morning," he replied, capitulating to my stifling sense of humour, but still poking at my lack of a commission. He plopped down on the sofa next to me. I yanked my newspaper from under him at the last second, "Lots of work, as usual."
It wasn't my first time speaking to him since I came back to District 2, after a four-year spell in District 8 as Deputy Head Peacekeeper. District 8 is a decent district, but not nearly one of the best, which would probably be District 1, 3 or 4. District 1 for the bling, 3 for the zing, and 4 for the splash. However, there was one district where we dread to be deployed to – District 2; the sheer stress here is too much for any peacekeeper, and there's simply no room for error and relaxation; every instance of this is sure to be reported to the Chamber, and that would severely impact one's prospects in the long run. That's why the locally stationed peacekeepers here speak with a heavy accent, the accent of District 7. They're not subject to the scrutiny of their native district, and we're not subject to our severity; it's the ideal solution, really.
"I see," I mused, studying the two young peacekeepers in combat garb, still steadfastly holding onto the four cases of paperwork, "your work is the bane of these two lads' existence, perhaps…" I trailed off.
"Ah yes," he noticed his two squires, blonde hair tumbling out of their helmets' raised visors, and sharp blue eyes piercing the gentle colour scheme of the room, "go leave these at my office, at the usual place."
"Yus, sur," they said, arms trembling from the strain.
Before they are long gone, with a snap of his forefingers, he summoned two other peacekeepers. I don't want to say that I feel a little defensive about talking too much with him, as it's said that it could ruin a perfectly good appointment. It's a rapport that I'm trying to rebuild around here, to talk to everyone and gain their favours, in case I'll need to rely on their support once I am inaugurated. Peacekeeping resources are scarce, and they're held centrally, at the disposal of these desk officers, and a good word here and there is more than enough to make the difference between a calamatous failure, meaning not holding things together, and a spectacular success, meaning barely holding things together. And if you reveal too much embarrassing information, they might reveal it while you're out in the field, and your ruin grows ever more complete. The task is to get on Uemaro's good side while not giving too much to work with.
The summonses quickly drew over two other young men, who looked almost identical to the squires holding Uemaro's boxes. These two are from the Rural Youth Araduation Programme, if I remember rightly. It's a special concession offered to quarriers' children, if only a few of the most remarkable of them, to ease district inequalities. Normally speaking, you had a very determined career path in District 2. If you were born into one of the "big four" clans, Nakahara, Kibi, Heguri, and Tachinaba, you're expected to enter the civil service at 20 and work your way up; if you're exceptional, you might become a permanent secretary, in charge of an entire chamber, of which there are eight in District 2. If you're not born into one of these clans, you could still join, but your prospects are a little more limited, perhaps an Assistant Secretary is the realistic goal. If you're born to a quarrier family, it's your lot to toil like animals for 14 hours a day for a pittance of a salary, producing stones and building materials from them. If you're lucky, you'd make your way through the Trials and become a peacekeeper. If you were born to the Agakira line of the Nakahara clan, the sky's the limit.
But of course, without a graduate degree from the Academy, you can't become an officer. And no quarrier in ten lifetimes will be able to afford admission to the Academy. That qualification is made more elusive by the Pomerium Proclamation, which banned quarriers from settling in town, in which the Academy is situated, except with permit from the Chamber of Public Affairs. And these two quarrier youths were selected from a lottery for a unicorn-rare, once-in-many-lifetimes chance to become real officers in the peacekeeper service. This is a very new programme yet, so there's no telling how far would these two lads advance in the hierarchy, but I wouldn't keep my neck out like they do. District 2 is still District 2. In the quarries, you make who you are; in town, your parents make who you are. My mother was Deputy Secretary in the Chamber of Central Affairs, and that means I don't need to pass examinations to enter. I took an interest in peacekeeping at the Academy, and upon graduation I become a Staff Officer, of the Ninth Rank. Having worked meticulously and tirelessly, and navigated myself pass hundreds of difficult hours for the past 30 years, I stand ready at the Sixth Rank.
"Uhm… two coffees please," Uemaro ordered, after reading the short menu for what seemed like an eternity, "hazlenut cream and local sugar in one and in the other…"
He waited for me to complete my coffee.
"Same for me," I puffed, "but no sugar."
"Are you quite sure, Uemaro?" He asked.
"Mmmyes," I dragged my syllables, "sugar makes me hyperventilate. I can see why you need it, though. You haven't done your boxes," I took a gamble. It might show me as a little more attached to him, by prodding him this way.
"Ah well, there's no need to talk about that in this company," he scoffed, but I sensed his complexion soften considerably. A soon-to-be-realized head peacekeeper is a good friend to have, as much as a head of a division in the central offices.
Of course he hasn't done his boxes. In those boxes are dozens, if not hundreds of files, each with a life hanging on it. Recently, there has been a revolt in District 9, and rebels just seem to materialize on us; most of these are easy pickings, and they were arrested and tried. Once they brought to a peacekeeper court, evidence would be heard, by a justice of the peace, and they're remanded to prison to await judgment; if judgment involves a capital or incarceration sentence, judgment is "reserved" and a brief is produced, stating in great detail the relevant facts and containing countersigned copies of the evidence. These briefs are then brought by train to District 2, where desk officers in the Division of Judicial Administration then reviews them for procedural and legal compliance. If this checks out, it's passed to a different officer to reconsider the penalty: is it too harsh or too lenient? Various factors are taken into consideration at this stage, including the image of the government that needs to be portrayed at this moment. After this, it's passed to the sectional supervisor, who checks both facets in each brief. There are five sections doing largely the same task; above them sits my friend Uemaro, who checks each brief with his decades of experience in legal work one final time and edits if necessary. After my friend puts his signature on the brief, it can no longer be edited; it's then passed off to the Chief of the Chamber, who can either approve or reject. If it's approved, then the judgment is sent back to the district in question for implementation; if it's rejected, the prisoner goes free. It may seem like a lengthy process, but it is; it's why people think we shut them up for months at a time. We like to take our time before dispensing with people's lives and liberty.
The two lads came back with a sterling silver serving tray and two freshly brewed coffees on them, for the two of us. As I said, they're in the Rural Youth Advancement Programme, and they're attending the Chamber too.
I haven't really told you what this term means, "attending the Chamber". It means nosing around the physical place without actually having a job here. Since these two lads are still in the Academy (their full tuition paid for by a trust), they've volunteered to serve as waiters here at the great hall, where they have the privilege of meeting with persons of dignity, like us. This is a great thing, the Rural Youth Advancement Programme; it saves busy people like me the trip to the canteen.
"Tell me, Uemaro," I started, to find him rapidly pulling his nose out of the news pages, "how's RYAP coming lately?"
"Oh, I can't possible say in any detail." he declaimed, "It's handled through DRA [Division of Recruitment and Appraisal]. What were you looking to be informed about, precisely, if I might?" DRA traditionally handle the recruitment and training of enlisted peacekeepers; the task of appointing officers belonged to the Chamber of Civil Affairs, on the opposite side of the Justice Building. The word "civil" here meant "civil service", not "civilian", for our tasks are most definitely not civilian. In antiquated terminology, we might even be called military, but we don't do that anymore. "Military" sounds too sinister; "peacekeeping" has an aura of peace around it. Civil Affairs is one of the most desirable departments in which to make a career, since others depend on you for their careers, but entry is likewise the most competitive.
This should be innocent curiosity. He wasn't discussing the contents of his work, which I don't want to know.
"Well, merely acquainting myself with my estranged native District, having spent most of the past decade or so in Districts 8 and 10. Is it being seriously proposed?" I inquired.
He drew a long swill of air, letting it rush to his lungs through a narrowed orifice, producing a sound similar to a gust.
"I wouldn't worry about it. At the present rate of 4 per annum, we would have retired before it produced any noticeable effect, on all of us 670 officers," he explained.
I was strangely dissatisfied, having expected something more exciting than this. Danger is exciting, which is somewhat strange coming from a man almost fully fifty, but I wouldn't have specialized in peacekeeping in the Academy if I hadn't relished it. I liked challenges, and six years ago RYAP was so outrageous when it descended on us from the District Council, it was a challenge, a challenge against all of us, with legitimate upbringings and real family history.
Quarriers are lesser beings in our dictionary, for the simple reason that they're not registered on the Public Rolls, which records the birth and death of every person. You need a name on the Public Rolls to live in town and to get a job here.
There are those who choose to work their way up centrally, like my interlocutor, Kimimaro. Others, like me, dedicate themselves to seeing the work done, that peace ensues according to administrative precedent. Ours is a difficult task; impoverished districts often commandeer our services to discharge what should be the realm of their local civil services. In District 5, we collect taxes in place of actual taxmen. In District 7, we manage the public records. In District 9, we inspect public safety and manage infrastructure.
Two other officials filed into the great hall, one whom I recognize as Hosomaro, a colleague a few years ago in District 4; the other I couldn't name, but I did realize whose importance. He's a dispatch officer in the Chamber of Central Affairs.
Central Affairs is the most important of the eight chambers that make up the administrative apparatus of the District. It's a liaison office situated in the Capitol that relays requirements and policies there made to us, and it's our channel of communication with the Capitol. A dispatch officer, though relatively junior in rank, is the analogue of a desk officer here in Peacekeeping. He's responsible for preparing the drafts of letters that contain the Capitol's demands that gets sent to us and for receiving our letters addressed to the President and Cabinet. Hosomaro, I think, is also employed here, and he settles down on a sofa, which opportunely isolates my target.
Walking up to the officer, I gave a deliberate bow and introduced myself, and he quickly supplied what I was looking to hear. You could recognize the presence of someone from Central Affairs by the ornate swords they wore at all times.
"Kimimaro? Ashimari Kimimaro?" He confirmed, "Yes, the District Council has dispatched your appointment, and a colleague is working on the letters patent. It will come through within the a few days."
I wasn't one to doze off in Civics classes in middle school, so I retain full memory of what letters patent are. These are official documents for appointing a range of senior officers; if a Cabinet minister was appointed, it was directed to the whole nation ("to all who shall come"). If it was a non-Capitol officer, it was directed to the Department of State ("to our right trusty and entirely well-beloved John Doe of District 2, Secretary of State"). Why Department of State? Well, that's another name for Central Affairs. That's right: we're so needed, that we have our own ministry in the Capitol itself. The Head of Central Affairs gets the title of Secretary of State and sits on the President's Cabinet, and that's access on a whole different level. It's a jealously guarded position, one that I can't hope to have.
It's approaching 7 in the morning, when officials are supposed to start working, but today is evidently a slow day. If my memory serves, this place should be bustling with activity, intrigue, and conspiracy by this time of day.
"Oh well, nose to the grindstone!" Uemaro stood up. "Nice to talk, Kimimaro."
"One second, Uemaro," I uttered, as a parting question, "how many do you need to release on ransom this year?"
"85,000. But we're not capturing enough of them! Over 4,000 credits, they can't afford it, and under 4,000 credits, we can't recuperate."
The RYAP kids approached silently from behind me again. It's not that my senses were particularly sharp with movement, but the odour of their hemp gowns have caught on. All we officers wear expensive, silk gowns, which we could afford. Many of us make more than 50 times as much as the quarriers. The RYAP kids still couldn't afford our gowns, so they had to make imitaitons from linen, which were not dyed, revealing a natural, soothing, milky white. Those above Second Rank wore deep purple; Third, violet; Fourth, crimson; Fifth, red; Sixth, mustard; Seventh, green; Eighth, blue; Ninth, grey. No rank? White. Outside of District 2? White, not for reasons of modesty but safety. It's strange the way we colour-code ourselves, but I suppose it's just another form of regimentation of which we're famous.