Tales from the Universe
Moral Dilemma: If becoming harder, colder, or less compassionate makes you more effective at doing necessary work, how much of yourself can you deliberately suppress before the tool you created to perform the job begins deciding who you are?
The mask did not make Orin cruel.
He wanted that understood.
It made him efficient.
Cruelty came later.
And even then, only sometimes.
Orin worked at the western gate.
He inspected cargo.
Collected tariffs.
Denied entry.
Confiscated contraband.
Occasionally arrested people.
He was terrible at it.
Not incompetent.
That would have been easier.
Orin knew the regulations perfectly.
He simply kept making exceptions.
“My daughter is sick.”
“Go ahead.”
“My permit expired yesterday.”
“Go ahead.”
“I didn’t know there was a fruit tariff.”
“Go ahead.”
“The goat ate my paperwork.”
Orin stared at the goat.
The goat stared back.
“Go ahead.”
His supervisor, Captain Vey, eventually called him inside.
“You collected eleven silver yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“The expected amount was ninety.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Orin considered.
“Complicated day.”
“Eleven silver complicated?”
“Yes.”
Vey rubbed his forehead.
“You understand tariffs fund the road?”
“Yes.”
“The guards?”
“Yes.”
“This building?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop letting everyone through.”
Orin nodded.
“I will.”
He did not.
The problem was that rules became people when they reached the gate.
On paper:
Expired permit: deny entry.
At the gate:
Old woman.
Thirty miles traveled.
Rain coming.
Grandson waiting inside.
Orin knew what the rule said.
He also knew what rain felt like.
Then the smugglers discovered him.
Compassion is useful information.
A man arrived with medicine.
“For my mother.”
Orin waved him through.
The crates contained untaxed brandy.
Another traveler claimed poverty.
Hidden jewelry.
Another cried.
Fake tears.
Orin became suspicious.
Then ashamed of being suspicious.
Then fooled again.
Captain Vey finally said:
“You don’t need less compassion.”
Orin looked surprised.
“You need something between compassion and decision.”
“What?”
Vey opened a cabinet.
Inside was a black wooden mask.
Plain.
No expression.
“Wear this.”
Orin laughed.
Vey didn’t.
The mask had belonged to gate officers for generations.
Magic.
Of course.
The city had a distressing habit of solving administrative problems with enchanted objects.
“What does it do?”
“Quietens interference.”
“What interference?”
“Fear. Embarrassment. Sympathy. Anger. Desire to be liked.”
Orin stared.
“Those seem like several different things.”
“They interfere with judgment.”
“So does stupidity.”
“The mask doesn’t fix that.”
“Shame.”
Orin wore it.
The world became clean.
That was the first thing he noticed.
A merchant approached.
“Permit.”
“Expired.”
“Only by two days.”
“Return to the licensing office.”
“I’ve traveled forty miles.”
“Return to the licensing office.”
“My goods will spoil.”
“Then you should have renewed before departure.”
The merchant shouted.
Orin felt nothing.
Not pleasure.
Not guilt.
Nothing.
Next.
At day’s end, Orin had collected ninety-seven silver.
Captain Vey smiled.
“How do you feel?”
Orin removed the mask.
Everything returned at once.
He vomited into a bucket.
“I sent away a woman with two children.”
“Her papers were false.”
“She said her husband abandoned her.”
“Possibly true.”
“She had nowhere to go.”
“Possibly true.”
Orin stared at the mask.
“I didn’t care.”
Vey corrected him.
“You didn’t let caring make the decision.”
“That sounds better.”
“It is different.”
“Is it?”
Vey didn’t answer.
Orin continued using the mask.
Only during work.
At first.
He became excellent.
Smugglers hated him.
Merchants respected him.
Collections stabilized.
Contraband fell.
His decisions were consistent.
No favorites.
No bribes.
No emotional manipulation.
The gate worked better.
This mattered.
Then Orin wore the mask during a disciplinary hearing.
A young guard had fallen asleep.
“Dismissed.”
The guard stared.
“My wife just had twins.”
“Congratulations.”
“I haven’t slept.”
“You abandoned your post.”
“For twenty minutes.”
“Dismissed.”
Afterward, Orin removed the mask.
Regret.
But the decision was correct.
Probably.
He wore it when negotiating salaries.
Useful.
During arguments.
Very useful.
When firing people.
Extremely useful.
Then one evening his wife, Mara, said:
“Take it off.”
Orin touched his face.
He had forgotten he was wearing it.
They were eating dinner.
“Why do you have that thing on?”
“Long day.”
“You’re home.”
“I know.”
“Take it off.”
He did.
Immediately he felt tired.
Irritated.
Guilty about being irritated.
Mara watched.
“You like it.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Orin looked toward the mask.
“I like the quiet.”
Without it, everything reached him.
People’s expressions.
Tone.
Disappointment.
Need.
His own doubt.
The mask removed all of that.
Decisions became straight roads.
Orin had spent his entire life walking through forests.
Straight roads felt miraculous.
He began wearing it more.
Not constantly.
He had rules.
Never with Mara.
Never with friends.
Never outside work.
Then:
Never during meals.
Then:
Never while sleeping.
The rules moved.
Quietly.
One day his daughter came to the gate.
Sixteen.
Furious.
“You denied Lio’s family entry.”
Orin was wearing the mask.
“Incorrect documents.”
“They’ve lived outside the walls for twenty years.”
“Then they should understand the requirements.”
“The licensing office lost their papers.”
“They can appeal.”
“Winter starts next week.”
“Then they should appeal quickly.”
His daughter stared.
“Take it off.”
“No.”
“Take it off and say that.”
Orin stopped.
She reached for the mask.
Orin caught her wrist.
Hard.
She gasped.
He released her.
A red mark remained.
Neither moved.
Then she said:
“Take it off.”
Orin did.
He saw the mark.
Saw her face.
Something inside him broke open.
He reviewed Lio’s case.
The licensing office had lost the documents.
The family was telling the truth.
Under the regulations, Orin’s decision had been technically correct.
They needed replacement papers.
The process took six weeks.
Winter would arrive in one.
Orin approved temporary entry.
Captain Vey objected.
“The mask gave you the correct ruling.”
“No.”
“The regulation is clear.”
“The regulation assumed the office hadn’t lost the documents.”
“Rules cannot account for every circumstance.”
“Exactly.”
Vey stared.
“That argument leads directly back to eleven silver a day.”
Orin knew.
That was the problem.
He stopped wearing the mask.
Performance declined.
Not disastrously.
But enough.
He hesitated.
Made inconsistent decisions.
Let one person through and denied another whose situation seemed similar.
People accused him of favoritism.
Sometimes they were right.
The mask had solved real problems.
Orin could not pretend otherwise.
So he changed how the gate worked.
Two officers reviewed difficult cases.
Written reasons required for exceptions.
Emergency permits.
Appeal process at the gate instead of across town.
Regular audits.
Clearer rules.
Discretion documented rather than hidden.
Captain Vey hated the paperwork.
Orin considered this a secondary benefit.
The mask remained.
For emergencies.
There were times when emotion truly overwhelmed judgment.
After an attack on the gate, Orin wore it while coordinating the response.
People were bleeding.
He was frightened.
The mask gave him enough distance to function.
He assigned healers.
Secured entrances.
Counted casualties.
Made decisions.
Then removed it.
Immediately.
That became important.
Years later, Orin became Captain.
He showed every new officer the mask.
Most expected him to forbid its use.
He didn’t.
“This can help you.”
He handed it around.
“It can let you act while afraid.”
A recruit put it on.
Her posture changed.
“It feels amazing.”
“Yes.”
“Everything is quiet.”
“Yes.”
“Why not use it all the time?”
Orin smiled sadly.
“Because some of the noise is information.”
He pointed toward the gate.
“Someone crying might be manipulating you.”
The recruits nodded.
“They might also be crying.”
Silence.
“Someone angry might be dangerous.”
He continued.
“They might also have been treated unjustly.”
He took back the mask.
“Your feelings can mislead you.”
He placed it on the table.
“So can removing them.”
One recruit raised his hand.
“Then how do we know?”
Orin laughed.
“You were hoping the job came with certainty?”
“A little.”
“It comes with procedures.”
“That sounds less impressive.”
“It is.”
When Orin retired, the mask stayed at the gate.
Not displayed.
Used.
Rarely.
Always logged.
Always temporarily.
Above the cabinet, Orin placed a sentence.
Captain Vey complained it was too long.
Orin ignored him.
It read:
IF YOU MUST BECOME SOMEONE ELSE TO DO WHAT IS NECESSARY, MAKE CERTAIN YOU KNOW HOW TO COME BACK.
Years later, another captain added a second line beneath it:
AND MAKE CERTAIN IT WAS NECESSARY.
Orin visited once, saw the addition, and smiled.
The mask remained expressionless.
As always.
That was what made it useful.
That was what made it dangerous.
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