No Questions Prohibited

When Jastor wakes up he has questions. And lots of them.

This room--with it’s bare brown walls, this threadbare blanket, raggedy and too small for his body, the pale orange of the sky outside his window, the remembrance that he has to wake up to get to Uzoa, the mining factory where he works--is a giant question mark.

He can almost see it hanging in the air as he stares up at his ceiling.

He knows that this is his room, that this is the blanket he’s been using ever since he was a child, the last relic of Mama, that the orange is the same orange sky it’s always been. (This is Qilica, what do you expect?) And that he has to get up to go to Uzoa in the next ten minutes, otherwise he’s risking being late.

He knows these things, for they’ve been part of his routine ever since he was ten, and now, eight years later, why should things be any different?

They aren’t, and yet they are.

Because for the first time, a citizen of Qilica is aware of something they shouldn’t be. They have questions. And in Qilica there are no questions.

But now there are.

And so everything must be changing.  

“Jastor!” A shuffle of footsteps. Then, louder, “JASTOR!”

“I’m up!” Jastor throws off the too tiny blanket, wondering why he’s kept it. Then wondering why he’s wondering. There is no wondering. There is no capacity for it.

Isn’t there?

Jastor’s footsteps creak across his bedroom floor as he puts on his mining uniform, then throws open the door and starts down the stairs, the inky black soles of his boots smashing across the delicate brown wood. 

All the way down he questions his ability to have gotten ready so quickly, for did he always do that? Did his body always know the steps of the dance to get from bed, to the closet, to the stairs, and now to the kitchen?

Did he always wear this uniform? Did he always quickly eat the breakfast spread on the table, then rush just as quickly out the door with a short and curt goodbye to his father, whose blank eyes don’t even seem to catch him?

Did he always have this many questions?

With a shiver, Jastor steps off his front porch and starts towards Uzoa, wondering how his feet remember the way better than his own brain does. 

He slips through the factory doors, and walks towards his post at the little metal table, beside an older gentleman, even older than his father.

Was this man always his working partner? 

“Hey.” Jastor nudges the man with his elbow, ignoring the pile of rocks in front of him that a distant part of his brain is telling him he has to crack open. He does, of course, have to check if there is dipliam inside of it, then inform his boss if there is any.  

He briefly wonders why he has to do that. Why do they need to know? Will they keep it for themselves or give it to someone else? What is it used for? 

Perhaps he’ll ask this man that too. If he answers this question, or even acknowledges him.

“Hey!” Jastor repeats. “Were you always at this section of the factory? At this table?”

The man turns to him with a blank gaze, the watery blue of his eyes hidden behind a veil of thin grey that hurts Jastor’s own eyes to look at.

He turns back to the table and gestures to his pile of rocks. “And why are we doing this? Who is the dipliam for, and why do we need it?”

The man continues to stare at him, not really focusing on anything, as if his brain is unable to comprehend the questions that Jastor is posing.

So he tries again.

“Uh, hello?” He waves his hand in front of the man’s face. “What’s wrong? Do you need medical help? Should I...call...someone?” But even as Jastor looks around he realizes that there is no one to call. Everyone is dutifully working at cracking open the rocks on their tables, their gloved fingers working in sync with their partner’s beside them.

Even Jastor’s own partner has turned to his pile of rocks, using a thin metal tool to pry open pieces of the dull blue stone. 

Everyone is absorbed in their own work. Everyone but him. And apparently the two people heading towards him, dressed in bright orange uniforms to match the sky outside the windows that are vaulted high in the ceiling. 

Good. Maybe they can give him some answers.

“Officers,” Jastor says, the word jumping to the forefront of his mind, unable to recall why he remembers it, or why he should be referring to them as such. “I have a question--”

“Resume your work.” The man says in a dull voice. “No questions prohibited.”

“No, you don’t--” Jastor starts, a feeling of dread in his stomach blooming like a bruise. “You have to tell me what’s going on. Why are we doing this? Why?” Jastor spreads his arms, gesturing to the dingy almost lightless room around them. “What is this for? Why are you here? Why is he here?” Jastor points to his partner, still working at prying apart the stones, oblivious to the world and all in it. 

“Why am I here?” Jastor turns back to the officers. “Why?”

The officers stare at him for a long moment, their faces unreadable, their gazes clouded with the same grey Jastor had seen on the man working beside him.

“Why?” Jastor repeats in case they didn’t hear him.

“Resume your work.” The other guard says, his voice the same flat tone as his companion’s. “No questions prohibited.”

“What?” 

“You will be reported.” The first one says. “For a continuous ask of questions. This is why you must resume your work.”

“No questions prohibited.” The other guard adds.

Jastor has the brief urge to grab them both and shake them until they give him answers. He never knew what an answer was. Never knew what a question was.

But now that he has one, he must have the other.

“You don’t understand.” Jastor says again, desperation lacing his every word. “You have to tell me. I--I don’t know what’s going on. Do you?”

“Resume your work.”

“No questions prohibited.”

Jastor is unable to help gaping at them as they walk away, the orange of their uniforms the only spot of colour in this world of dull blues and greys.

Jastor even has questions about that. He has too many questions. Far too many, and if he continues seeing them everywhere he looks--at the rocks, at the dull brown of his and his fellow workers’ uniforms--then it will drive him mad.

But there is no one to pose these questions to, Jastor realizes with another fresh wave of fear. It’s like salt being thrown into his heart, stinging and burning, leaving him painfully raw.

With nothing else to do, he resumes his work, his fingers already knowing which tools to grab, the exact points of the rock that will crack it open effectively.

He wants nothing more than to run from this stifling factory, and out into the fiery colours of their planet. He wants nothing more than to hunt someone down and ask for answers.

But no questions prohibited.

****

Routine is boring. Kavara needs to do something to break it.

But alas, although being second in command means she gets to execute authority over a bunch of mindless workers and head Zigdar’s training grounds, it also means standard check-ins with the other nine planets. 

So the ordering and knife throwing has to wait.

Flipping her thick dark braid over her freshly pressed uniform, she slides her fingers over the holograms keyboard, checking to make sure everything is in order.

“Hhm.” She presses her lips together. 

While it’s good to see that Umera, Zuwrea, and Aishall are still making their weapons, Slautor, Iowreron, and Draezomoa are still building new technologies, and Flauwogora, Ainuboris, and Ludiobrix are still scouring the skies for new horizons for Qilica to conquer, it’s dull seeing no bloodshed.

   Even Qilica isn’t experiencing any difficulties. It’s still mining up the dipliam to power the crafting of resources for their sister planets. Or, child planets.

Calling them sisters would insinuate that Qilica is equal to them, when it is superior in every way.

“General.”

The low voice at the door stops Kavara’s momentary braid twirling. She swivels around in her seat, lowering her feet off her desk as she does. “Yes?”

“They need you in room AE05.” The guard gives a short little bow, more of an incline of his head really, as he leaves the room to Kavara’s frown.

She should be used to it, but how can one get used to being treated with disrespect?

Eighteen years old and she’s still treated like a child, even though she excelled at all her tests, proved herself to be a loyal and fierce General, and did it all with the Commander’s approval.

With clenched teeth Kavara smooths out her uniform, tightens her braid, and strides from the room.

“General Kavara.” The Commander nods his head at her, beckoning her forward once she slips through the doors of AE05. “We have an issue.”

The words shouldn’t excite her, shouldn’t send the blood pumping through her veins with renewed vigor, and yet. And yet.

“An issue?” She tries to keep the smile from her voice.

Oh please, give her the chance to fight something.

“It’s a rather sensitive, and most alarming development. It’s why it’s only you here.”

Indeed, as she peers around the room, making her way to the Commander’s side, she realizes they are the only two people in the room.

“Tell me what it is and I’ll take care of it.” Kavara raises her chin, determined to prove herself yet again, to people who can’t see past the still childish lines of her face.

“There is a man. Still a boy really, a Jastor Kilik, who is...asking questions.” The Commander’s eyes darken, and Kavara feels her stomach drop, a heavy stone sinking into deep waters.

“Asking...questions?”

The idea is unheard of. No one, no one, asks questions. Not here in Qilica, not in Aishall, Draezomoa, Ludiobrix or any of the other child planets. 

The idea is a simple one really: Mother controls everything. The system was created by the finest of Iowreron’s citizens, their technological brain child that is now their jailer. All the other planets’ jailers too. 

No one knows to ask questions, simply because Mother does not allow them. The system keeps their minds blank and controlled, ensuring they do as their superiors tell them and follow through with their work. They give the only freedom to Zigdar and those who live behind its walls. To the Commander, and to people like Kavara, who are able to ask questions.

So, Kavara asks.

“How?” The word is breathless and laced with fear.

Could Mother be...be fighting back somehow? Have they grown beyond what they were supposed to? Are they trying to destroy the system? 

But doing so would mean destroying themself. Destroying the very fabric that holds the planets and their order together.

“I do not know.” The Commander shakes his head. “And Mother refuses to talk of their actions. Our people are trying to get answers from them as we speak. But that is not why I called you here Kavara.”

“I can help.” Kavara says instinctively, her mind already running through endless possibilities as to why Mother would do such a thing. And to only one citizen. Perhaps--

“Who is this citizen that is asking questions?” Kavara asks, her brain catching up with her mouth. “Where does he come from? What does he do?”

“All good questions,” The Commander says with an age worn smile. “But those are the answers we do not have. And the ones that you need to get.”

“I will go now.” Kavara says, already walking towards the door. 

Finally! Things are going splendidly wrong!

This is her chance. She will find this Jastor Kilik, demand answers to his questions (even if she has to use her knives to force them out of him), and then fix Mother with her own two hands if she must. 

And she will prove, once and for all, that she is not some child playing in adult clothing.

“General?” The Commander’s words stop her before her fingers have reached the glassy plain surface of the door to tap open.

“Commander?” Kavara’s braid swishes, an inky tail of darkness, as she turns back to the Commander.

“Questions before blades.” He gives her a knowing smile.

Kavara winks, then glides from the room.

****

The streets of Qilica are beginning to cover in a soft purple substance, wet and cold to the touch, but melting across Jastor’s palm as he grasps handfuls of it.

He wonders what it is. And why it’s so cold.

“Excuse me, could you tell me what--” Jastor cuts himself off as he meets the blank eyes of his fellow worker, streaming out of the factory building, same as him.

“Ah, never mind.” Jastor lowers his hand, and steps away from the man, starting towards a side street that he had never realized before. At least, he thinks he hasn’t realized it before.

I wonder if it’s always been there? And who made it? And why is it so narrow, with the buildings nearly swallowing up all the space between it?  

The thoughts play over and over in Jastor’s head as he walks towards the tiny street, the soft lilac clumps falling all around him, staining the fading orange sky with their vivid colour.

Black, so deep and consuming, slashes across it.

In less than the time it takes for Jastor to blink, a young woman, probably around the same age as himself, is standing across from him.

She is dark from head to toe and looks out of place in this soft bright world.

Even her mouth, painted a colour so red it looks black, looks out of place as it twists into a wicked grin.

“Jastor Kilik.” The woman declares. “I have some questions for you.”