Everything is simpler in the abstract. Anyone can say, "It is always better to be honest." Of course, that sounds good, and definitely honesty seems the best policy if one does not think more than perhaps one step ahead. However, given minimal time a person can hypothesize any number of situations where honesty is actually a shitty idea. Justice, Ryven considered, was indeed an easier ideal in the abstract than it was in the concrete. He was faced with a conundrum, a dilemma from which no clear solution could be readily contrived.
His newfound morning routine of exercises followed by prolonged meditation had been interrupted by a shrill alarm from his neocom. He had received a message, short, terse, and familiar, from someone he had not expected. Kat. The message was not a warm one. It was direct and to the point, which told Ryven it was definitely authentic. Kat had always been rather quick to get to the point, never miring herself in unnecessary banality. Simply put, Kat needed something from him, something that she knew he had: his sadism.
But, I put that behind me. Ryven pored over the words, few that they were, finding their meaning to be clear. "I need your advice on how to get information from someone." If you send a message to a librarian, they'll tell you to read a book. If you send a message to a doctor, they'll tell you what medicine to take. If you send a message to someone like Ryven, there's a particular kind of answer you are looking for. Or at least, that was the old Ryven. So I am called upon to cause yet more injustice. But, can I? Ryven stared out the main viewport of the Penance at the glowing expanse of ethereal wisps of gas and dust that formed a nebula many light years across. He gazed at it, something tickling the back of his consciousness. He studied it's haunting sickly green length from one end to the other, seeing the mottling of brown and yellow shades twining through it. It was a truly majestic sight. He remembered his earliest studies in astronomy. The particles in a nebula are actually miles apart from one another. Were a person to actually be within the nebula, they would not realize it because it can only be seen from light years away. The particles are that small and that far apart.
Holy shit. That's it, isn't it? Ryven's thoughts scaled from the macro to the micro. Patterns are repeated at all scales of existence. The same shapes and forms that exist in the cosmos are mirrored in the patterns and shapes found in the microcosms found under the most intense magnification. What mattered was the scale at which they were viewed! Of course torture is an injustice when seen apart from its context. However, what is the context? Kat didn't say what the information was or who the poor holder of that information happened to be. The information might be vital. The person might deserve the pain they receive. The injustice done to him might actually be justice for things that the person had done or would soon do. Justice needed to be seen not as the individual particular acts, but rather as the nebulous aggregate of many millions of acts. Or perhaps even a smaller subset of acts. The trick was the scale at which it was analyzed.
But, there's another reason, too, isn't there? He thought to himself. He hadn't really wanted to think about it. I wronged Kat. I wronged her repeatedly. I hurt her. I neglected her. I treated her unjustly. I owe her this. Self-sacrifice.
He stared back out into the vastness. Trillions upon trillions of people, all of them in the abstract. None were visible. None tangible. He was alone. Who we really are is who we are when we're alone. The real us, devoid of masks, devoid of pretense. The only expectations we must live up to when we are truly alone are the ones we set for ourselves. This is the most naked I may ever be. Have I shown my true colors right here? Is this all I can ever be? A killer? A sadist? A butcher? She didn't contact you so you could tell her to "ask nicely." She contacted you because she wants to get information in the sort of way where you need a mop afterward. The sort of way where you don't get to make a follow-up appointment. If I answer her, I'm condemning a man to death in a violent, excruciating, prolonged, and absolutely brutal fashion. If I don't help her, then I have failed her again. He looked out into the void again. As always, he found only himself and he knew what he must do.
He began to write a reply, his hand trembling as he did.
Some things are easier in the abstract.
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