The Will of the Many (Hierarchy, #1)

by James Islington

“Please. No more. Don’t put me back. You don’t know what it’s like.” The words are pure misery. His head twitches around, enough to include me in his gaze. “You. You’re nicer than the others. Gentler. I know. I know, because being on this slab isn’t like sleeping. It’s worse. You’re almost asleep. All the time. But awake enough to recognise that things are happening. You know your mind should move faster. You know the world is passing you by.”

I gave up on dreams of exacting revenge on the Republic long ago, but that doesn’t mean I’ll never have to defy them.

This is the only place in the world where I don’t have to pretend to be friendly. Or dull. Or servile. Or weary. This is the one place where I don’t have to hold back.

CHAIN YOUR ANGER IN THE dark, my mother used to tell me, and it will only thrive.

“Sytrecian. It’s more of an insult. The rough translation is someone who could ‘brighten a room with their absence, or dazzle it with their corpse.’ ” I smile slightly. I’ve always liked that one. “All that in two words?” “Apparently so.”

The Hierarchy’s shadow lies over all, and I’ve never considered myself blind to their power, but this is something else. I can’t calculate the city’s size; I can’t see its end. Buildings both lavish and shabby coat the shores of the bay and then sprawl back up the gently rising ground beyond, until they fill the horizon in every direction. There’s no way to grasp its enormity, no mental comparison by which I can diminish the horrified awe it inspires.

I don’t let up, don’t let him retreat, and within ten seconds I know I will win. There’s a flow to this. A dream-like joy when you realise your opponent cannot hope to match you. You start to see their punches coming from so far off that it’s tempting to let them get closer than they should. You choose where to hit, when to hit. You think about the fight in an almost abstracted way. Strike there. Disable that. You can see the realisation creeping over their face. You can see when they’ve recognised the loss, long before they actually go down. You become the tide. Inexorable.

yeah....

But like everything else, the Hierarchy dangles it. Always a way up, even for the condemned. Always a way out from under the misery they’ve heaped on you, if you work hard enough. Fight hard enough. Take your chances.

“Nervousness means there’s a fear to be faced ahead, Diago. The man who is never nervous, never does anything hard. The man who is never nervous, never grows.”

A fair system only works if there’s an unbiased means of assessing merit. When there is no pride or selfishness involved.” He gives a soft snort, shaking his head. “Which means that fair systems cannot exist where people are involved.”

In trying to become God, they created Him.

“It was my blood, last night. Mine. Entirely my blood.” “Ah.” Eidhin looks vaguely disappointed.

“They ask something small of you. A thing you would prefer not to do, but is not so terrible. You think you are working your way up, but in fact they are changing you. Moulding you into what they think you should be, one compromise at a time.” He says it simply, but there’s rock-hard belief beneath the words.

“They are the world, my prince. Pride and self-respect may mean we never give in, but if they are all our enemies, we will never be happy.”

“Death is only meaningless if it does not change us, Vis.”