Lament of Authority

It is over.
He is dead.
Time of death was 1648
In a New York City hospital.

His family was informed of an unfortunate accident by 2353.
His wife, age 41
His daughter, age 12
His son, age 11
Shambled to the door in their pyjamas
To be greeted by two of my most sombre-faced agents.
They were told that the body had been flown back to the capital,
But that they would not be able to observe it
Until tomorrow at 0900
At the soonest.

Near the same time,
In my dimly-lit office,
I was assured by my advisory committee
That my sleepless nights had been fruitful
And I had made the right and just decision;
That all those nights I had spent
Bent over my desk
       With beads of sweat running
       Down my face,
       Down my neck,
       Down my back,
       Seeping into my nightclothes
       And chafing me raw with every slight movement
Had culminated in the saving of our people
From certain destruction.

When his family was informed,
They were also given what had been on his person:
From his left pocket, his wallet.
From his left hand, his wristwatch.
From his right hand, his wedding band
And the ring etched with the seal
Of the school he and I attended together.

I have a matching ring
In a box atop my dresser.
Both his ring and mine
Bear some rather serious scuff marks
On the underside of the band:
The sole remaining evidence
Of a late-night carouse
Which resulted in the two of us having to scale a fence
When authorities arrived.

Among those items not relinquished to his family
Was a small set of papers.
We assumed he used paper
Because an e-mail would be too easily traced.

If these papers were delivered to their intended destination,
They would expose to the world a critical flaw
In the fragile stronghold that is our nation.
Our tenuous peace would be entirely undone.

Our bond had survived
Four schools,
A revolution,
Two civil wars,
Nearly twenty years in all.
But was it equal in worth
To the multitude of lives that would certainly be lost
If his treason was successful?

This was the question that had been fermenting in my mind
On those long nights.

Logic dictated that the answer was no;
That I was obliged to hundreds of thousands
And those hundreds of thousands outweighed the one.
Yet when I would begin to set the matter to rest
And bring my pen to the order,
My eyes would drift across that ring box on my dresser,
And it would meet my gaze with anger, sadness, and shame.

But across that order my pen did scrawl,
Trembling as it went.
The hundreds of thousands were saved
By the spillage of his blood.

I know that when I return to my room on this night,
That ring box will still be there.
Though my question has been answered,
Sleep will be no easier.