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Power is not a means, it is an end. - [O'Brien, Part 3 - 1984]
The block of flats belonged to the finer ones in London. However in comparison to the former image of the once grand city they were absolutely hideous, just another heap of concrete blocks that crowded the rebuilt metropole. It was even austere, America would say, totally lacking any style, but that didn’t matter anymore. It was the sort of justification that the overlord would give himself when his old self would resurface because this wasn’t the United States of America walking down what once was Downing Street, a lane he had strolled down so many times with his infuriating father, but Oceania paying a visit to Airstrip 1.
England would have delivered load after load of sharp remarks which his son would have swatted away his well-chosen arguments; their relationship had been getting better at that point, because it had been more friendly banter than words thick with vitriol. At present, their time together was filled with neither and that was better.
The building was clean as mandatory with all living spaces of a member of the Inner Party. White walls and spotless windows, a picture of simplistic luxury. It was a thing every human on earth got but at the same time that was wrong – only Oceanian society was granted such a boon, the rest grovelled in the dirt.
Oceania didn’t ponder about that hypocrisy, he didn’t need to because it was a notion that was perfectly ingrained in his mind, and wordlessly strode past the white-clad servant on his way to the top-most story of the complex.
One of the Asian man-servants tailed him, accompanied him until his last steps to the door at the end of the passage. In a way of bitter irony the silent companion reminded him of Kiku, of how the failed empire had been after the Second World War; how the greed for power had been swapped for defeat and meekness. Once they might have grown closer together but there is no place for emotional baggage in face of a long-time goal. Besides, never would he deign to the level of Japan; Alfred didn’t make such foolish mistakes in his quest for power.
A sharp rap on the wood was followed by a voice smothered by the barrier answering: “Come in.”
Giving the super-state a deep bow the human scurried away and Oceania entered the living quarters of his minion. The aroma of cheap tobacco and tea hung in the air, almost like it had been some 40 years ago; yet something defining was different. A glance around the room told him that that hadn’t changed much since his last visit. A thick carpet covered the room and Alfred could tell by how he sunk in ever so slightly that it was lush and soft. It should’ve been more worn; the conclusion was that Airstrip 1 wasn’t at the home he had been so graciously given as often as he should. At least it simultaneously meant he wasn’t receiving many guests.
The oak desk was still in the same place, the dim light seeping through the cloud covering falling onto piles of paperwork. A world map hung opposite a telescreen; the volume of the device turned down until the voices were near unintelligible. Quiet enough that it didn’t distract from important matters but loud enough that its idealistic whispers still poisoned the mind. Just as it should be.
Even though Arthur had managed to maintain his stiff elegance, these dwellings were a cheap parody of his former quarters, his residence in Buckingham Palace with all its finery and art. Arthur Kirkland, however, was changed, as the only thing in the room.
Upon seeing him Alfred felt his heart beat faster, not in childish delight in seeing his proclaimed father as it once had, but in a flight of sadistic schadenfreude that erupted when he noted that the state of his host had deteriorated even further.
He was gaunt, hollow cheeks amplified his high cheekbones and his hair was a mixture of faded grey and blond. A shadow of man, more a corpse than a living being. Somehow the tales of the undead had come true by this person.
As he crossed the spacious office the man behind the desk glanced up from his work. Dull green eyes met sapphire ones. They still burned like coal, not the same way they did when Arthur was an empire, not with the shine of vitality and youthfulness, but this frightening strength that Ingsoc granted him and insanity that was as horrific as it was beautiful. It was a sort of hollowness that clashed with something monstrous; frightening in the way it was unholy, but Alfred had come to love things that contradicted themselves, that would in a normal situation eradicate each other, and still coexisted. Lies that were the truth and truths that were lies were what sustained him.
Airstrip 1 abandoned his doings and stood up in a polite form of respect, one party member to another. England would have never bothered with such formalities to his former charge, wouldn’t even have acknowledged America until he was standing right in front of him and preferred to bark a sharp jab about his eldest’s state over a greeting.
Maybe that’s why it’s so satisfying when the words that come out are a crude crossing between Newspeak and Oldspeak: “You do good?”
Any good Englishman would have bristled to hear his language butchered in such a way. Arthur once had; when he had been coerced to use Newspeak disgust and self-loathing had peppered his words, gradually his tone had become more mechanical. It was still wooden, but it was such an improvement.
“Goodwise”, came the immediate answer, the Newspeak flowing as easily as it should. The inquiry was mundane and unimportant since the reply was concrete, a show of formality more than anything else.
Once, he remembered, his former guardian would have never admitted to faring badly out of stubborn pride, now it was due to his conscription to the rigid ideology, the latter because there would only be the never-ending glory of Big Brother.
Alfred imitated the greeting his host gave him only to receive the exact same text-book answer. Inclining his head in acknowledgment he then muttered: “Splendid.”
Thick brows frowned at Jones’ use of Oldspeak but not a sound of protest was made. It was a privilege the younger sometimes allowed himself, if only to show off the freedom that he had in contrast to others. His haughtiness was warranted for after all, the Party was eternal. However pride comes before the downfall.
Still he revelled in the power he held; it was one of the many boons that come with dictating the rules. Somehow, he wished the dominion would lecture him in order to demonstrate his loyalty to the cause; being in the uppermost ranks meant that they were equal officially. In total that wasn’t the whole picture however; Ingsoc was built upon open secrets and Arthur knew his place – the puppet didn’t dare raise its voice against the master.
Kirkland stiffly walked over the cupboard to retrieve a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses, whilst his unannounced guest made himself comfortable and inspected what lay on the table.
A speakwrite was placed beside a stack of documents and judging by what was in the middle of the desk his minion had been busy with matters concerning the Ministry of Plenty before Alfred had graced him with his presence. On the far side of the table was a cup of tea that had gone cold. Inwardly Oceania cringed in disgust. Not because of the beverage itself – he knew that Airstrip 1 needed a dose of the infernal brew in the morning, favourably with a shot of hard liquor – but because of the intricate blue designs on the dainty china. Porcelain hadn’t been manufactured in such a way for over 50 years; it was a touch of the past that was ostracised.
The old man seemed nostalgic about his glory days. How dare he? Through the system he had more than he ever could dream of. Alas, while the mind of one of the Inner Party was convoluted, that of a personification was even more so. How many more ancient relics was this man hiding from him? Maybe a well-meant lecture was due.
Kirkland seemed to have noticed the glare because as he cleared off the wooden surface, he shifted it out of sight. Wordlessly he turned to pour out some wine, giving himself a rather generous amount. Taking a seat he then inquired: “What brings you here?”
A few years ago there had still been that razor-sharp undertone that had snapped “What do you want from me, twit?”, during the World Wars there had been relief, and a desperate plea for him to stay. That was long gone for that past doesn’t flow into this present. Instead he sounded jaded.
My dear friend, I’m fucking concerned. People say that you’re isolating yourself again”, he elaborates his voice filled with mock-concern. Arthur let the words sink in, his brain switching to Oldspeak to keep up with his son. He manages to keep a straight face even as Alfred's speech pattern delves into a poor parody of America’s. Seeing which way the conversation was going, Kirkland reached out to a button and switched off the telescreen. The things that were to be discussed were solely affairs of their kind.
Gesturing to the files and papers crowding the space he justified himself: “As you can see, I’ve been busy. Work doesn’t do itself after all.” Ah, there is a faint spark of a once great empire, it was nearly a pity he made such a good dog in the end. It was inhumane to drown his subordinate in paperwork, but when had Alfred been just and fair as a superstate? It was necessary to keep an underling busy, least they develop heretic thoughts and individualistic ideas.
Community gatherings would also do the job, he had a few people that could keep an eye on him, but he didn’t like his provinces interacting with their own people. He couldn’t allow Arthur to relapse due to a bout of self-awareness, especially when he was doing so well.
Looking at what once had been England he reminisced how deep the former world power had fallen.
“You shouldn’t overwork yourself”, he remarked, studying the movements of his host with the precision of a scientist. Part of him held pity for the shorter man, a feeling that burned in intensity. Simultaneously it was exactly what he intended to do. There was a sadistic satisfaction to watch the man that had once made all his choices for him, work and toil until he was more dead than alive and treat his every whim as an order. How times had changed.
If only they had known back then, what he would become then Arthur would have killed him when he still had had the chance. Then the Europeans wouldn’t have come to the aid of a rag-tag colony. The prodigy had surpassed the master and, in the process, learned from the mistakes of those old fools and his own blunders. Yet again that wasn’t the case because Big Brother was omnipotent and eternal and always right.
“The war demands my attention”, Arthur clarified.
A continuous war that never ended, that was just another cog in the machine of Ingsoc. On the other hand how could he think such a thing? Oceania would reign victorious over the barbaric foreign powers and bathe in infinite triumph.
“Ivan has been getting bold”, the superstate agreed.
The war has always been against Eurasia
“Yes, that blasted operation in the Sahara was a mistake on the whole”, the province extended.
Eurasia never failed to infuriate him; he wanted to wipe that snide smile from his face, crush him beneath his boot, eradicate everything he stood for. Even before the revolution they hadn’t been on good terms and wanted to tear each other apart. Alfred took gratification in the fact that Ivan hid smouldering wounds under his coat, a souvenir of radiation.
“You are stupid. What are you talking about? Everything has gone according to plan. They’ve taken the bait and now we can destroy them”, he reprimanded Arthur like a schoolmaster would do a little boy.
Eurasia was his partner in this conspiracy, one of the few that understood him intimately. They played this game of war like they never did anything else. What would they be without each other?
Like so many paradoxes of the modern world it was both an unfortunate circumstance and a calculated fact. As agreed, the shift of control over the disputed regions proceeded smoothly, the change of alliances and destruction of surplus goods de rigueur. The loss of life was essential; for the superstates it was like clipping fingernails or cutting frayed hair. Good riddance.
War is peace.
War is peace because it was the only way the established pecking order could survive. The stability of the system relied on the instability of its practitioners. Pure madness inhabited the minds of every human alive to some extent. Insanity because the perversion of thought couldn’t be anything else, because the constant battle against one’s own instincts and fundamental rights and deepest desires was unnatural. Everything was a structured chaos from which no order could arise, and Alfred intended on keeping it that way.
A sheepish expression fluttered over the features of the accused along with a hint of fear as he was caught red-handed. Of course it vanished as quickly as it came with schooling his expression to a blank mask and correcting himself: “Of course how foolish of me. With such a brilliant move the Eurasian Army will be smashed once and for all!” But the words sounded mechanical, the voice of someone obliging even though they knew the opposite was true.
Once Ludwig had dreamed of having Arthur like this. He had recognized the greed in the German’s eyes because it had been so similar to his own. So, tragic, that he lost his footing on the way to the top. Alfred had taken glee in tripping him. Back then, after the war that he had caused, he had appeared so alike to how Arthur was now, so hopeless, a living dead. Beilschmidt had still carried himself like a man at the point of collapsing when Alfred had last seen him, just before Europe had been ceded to Russia. How easily dreams shatters, but sometimes it’s important to be absent from reality.
Ignorance is strength.
Knowledge makes a man weak because then he fully realises that he is being exploited and that he can do nothing against it, that he was just a marionette that would be discarded when he was no longer of any use. Hopelessness would set in, accompanied by a strange sort of melancholia that America had loathed.
Arthur knew how wrong his actions were, he was intelligent after all. Doublethink was a blessing he granted himself, vivisecting his own thoughts and banishing into oblivion what wasn’t convenient, even when every part of his soul screamed how he was betraying himself. At the same time he loved it, because as Britain he had preached about self-discipline. It was simply easier to live with lies than the bittersweet truth, else he would have to accept that he had stooped so low. In the end, ignorance wasn’t only strength but also bliss.
Smiling to himself Alfred allowed the rush of pleasure to flow freely through him – this was a game that was always a wellspring of euphoria for him. Raising a glass he enthusiastically proclaimed: “A toast! To victory!”
“To victory!”, the older man echoed as the clink of glass against glass filled the room. Before taking a sip, Alfred let the vintage swirl around before raising the rim to his thin lips. As with everything the quality had declined over the years; it bordered on the flavour of vinegar and his mouth would probably be blue afterwards. What should he have expected; the English weather wasn’t suited for the grapes needed and neither did they have the expertise of the French.
Staring at Arthur he couldn’t help but wonder, as he mused had centuries of companionship had dissipated over a few short years, like dew in the morning sun. The most dearest enemy of the island nation was now a thing of the past…
Whoever controls the past controls the future. Whoever controls the present controls the past.
… and in a society where the past was continuously altered only the present moment counted and that was where Francis was irrelevant. He asked himself if Airstrip 1 still remembered his former adversary. Naturally he did because between two of their kind the deepest and most heartfelt relationship was one between two enemies. Hatred forged bonds love never could.
In a way they would always have a part of one another, they had known each other for so long that nothing else was possible – or so one would believe. When was the last time they had met? 50 years? 60? Long enough to bury all the meaningful memories. For the minion it was better that way; happy recollections were painful in hindsight because they never could be repeated. It was far simpler to unquestionably believe Big Brother. Besides, in modern times, the husk of England only had to look in the mirror to see his greatest foe.
For a while there was an uncomfortable silence between them as they drank to a victory that isn’t one over an enemy but over themselves above all else. Arthur shifted ever so slightly under Alfred’s stare; he had come to know it as a bad omen. Porcelain scraped over oak before it tipped over the edge to fall into oblivion. Oceania didn’t have to follow the movement of his subordinate’s eyes to know what happened, nor the way the latter tensed in preparation more a fast movement that never came.
The former could reconstruct Airstrip 1’s office in his sleep and it was obvious that a precious teacup had just disappeared down the memory hole. How fitting. All while sitting there he had contemplated smashing the china artwork to pieces; however the past doesn’t just belong shattered beyond recognition. That was what they did, whitewash history to their liking. No it belonged vaporised, annihilated so that there was no trace left of it so it could be completely retold. When it came to personifications, rewriting history so thoroughly meant recreating identities. Alfred wanted to bluntly ask Arthur if that one had been his last, just to see his expression, but he could personally ransack the apartment later.
The former empire played it off as nothing and cleared his throat: “I suppose Yao isn’t of great help?”
Searching for a few words that wouldn’t reveal too much Alfred then stated: “Enough, just enough. Insists heavily on doing stuff his way as usual.”
“As to be expected, he still holds himself too high. The old empires never seem to change”, came the direct response.
“Indeed. They are too full of themselves to do what is smart.” Despite that the jab was directed more at him than Eastasia, Kirkland took it in stride.
Freedom is Slavery
As the British Empire, Arthur Kirkland had governed with an iron fist. Back in those days he had been a lion padding into a drawing room, moving with deadly elegance and constantly demanding attention. There had been a shine in his eyes; it was still there but of a different type.
He still moved with purpose, with power but at the same time the fatigue showed. It was as if somebody had pumped a starved man full of steroids, the energy clearly evident but wrong because chemical replicants aren’t a sufficient replacement for food.
Even if all his well thought through methods failed Oceania knew Arthur wouldn’t consider rebellion so quickly, the explanation being that he didn’t want to relinquish the power he held. He was intoxicated on the control he possessed, how he could decide not only what people did but what they thought, how he could torture humans into loving him, into devoting every fibre of their being to Ingsoc.
In that way Alfred and Arthur were very much alike, yet there was a fundamental difference between them. By Alfred this was a truth and by Arthur it was an illusion. An illusion because the latter was just an extension of the hegemony of the former, because with a snap of his fingers everything he granted his servant could be taken away. Thus what once was a world power, a force to be reckoned with and feared, was dependent on his colony. The tables had turned.
Long ago on a battlefield Spain had said to America that he wasn’t so different from the colonial powers of Europe. Oh how wrong Antonio was. America had become so much more than them. They had been too prideful and arrogant to learn from their mishaps and they had paid for it.
As Oceania he never admitted to what he learned, because learning had become an indicator of weakness, a confession that Big Brother was fallible and that he had failed before. No he wasn’t an empire on which the sun would never set because empires always end. The sun revolved around the superstate. It was possible in this twisted reality where everything was true as long as he said it.
However, in the end Oceania was a prisoner of his own doing, constantly mutilating himself and sacrificing his morals and freedom that he had once cherished so much for the sake of power. In the end, behind all the crimestop and denial and lust for power, Airstrip 1 clung to a thought buried deep in his mind; a thought that was more a wisp of a feeling because the words to describe it were fleeing him day by day. That the trio of power drunk boys which ruled the world would one day make a grave mistake and everything they orchestrated would come crashing down. Then he would be free again. He just hoped he’d live long enough to see that day.