Three Rules
"Simpler than you'd think. Just remember three things."
That was what I was told on my very first day as an Immigration Officer.
"First. When addressing your counterpart, you shall call them esteemed visitor or you. When referring to yourself, you shall say this officer."
She, the one who had hired me, held up a single finger as she spoke.
"Those who serve the state must be set apart from all others. It should be unmistakable at a glance. Only then can we cut off innocent misunderstandings and unsavory incidents before they ever occur. And the foundation of that distinction is the very way we speak."
In other words, the plan was to overhaul ordinary forms of address entirely, so that any public official could be identified on sight alone.
Actually a rather clever idea.
That way, even out of uniform, in plain everyday clothes, you'd still know a civil servant when you saw one.
Provided, of course, that whoever was talking to you actually played along.
She raised a second finger.
"Second. Whoever they may be, you shall never speak down to them. You will use respectful speech at all times."
She put deliberate weight on the words whoever they may be.
"An Immigration Officer is the very first person a traveler meets upon reaching our country. To them, you are the nation's first impression — its face — and so you must remain courteous yet resolute."
Loosely translated: treat everyone identically — man or woman, young or old, whatever their species, whatever their rank.
A perfectly reasonable principle.
First impressions matter even between two ordinary people meeting on the street; how much more they must matter on a national scale.
In short: be polite and kind, but never let yourself be underestimated.
"Remember just these two, and you will rarely find yourself in trouble."
Rules that were intuitive and easy to grasp — I felt myself relax a little.
Except there had been one more, hadn't there?
"Er... then what's the third one?"
"Ah, the third is easier still. It is also the one you must keep foremost in mind."
She unfolded her last finger.
"Punishment for an Immigration Officer is execution — no consideration of severity, no exceptions."
"...I'm sorry, what?"
Had I misheard her?
Execution? As in, the word I think I know?
Execution? The chop-your-head-off kind?
"Um... you're joking, right?"
"Ah, I hadn't mentioned this in advance either. One of your predecessors was executed three days ago."
With that, she pointed to a flyer hanging on the wall.
Looking closer, the date was exactly three days ago.
"..."
Is this for real?
They actually cut off a person's head? A person who worked for the country?
"Wh- wh- wh- what was the charge? Why on earth?"
"He committed something unspeakably vile, an atrocity no soul could dare imagine. An evil for the century."
"What exactly was it?"
At my question, she glanced around, then lowered her voice — as if about to let me in on something I was never meant to hear.
I leaned in toward her too, and after a long, tense silence, the answer came.
"He was fifteen minutes late for work."
"..."
"Hard to imagine, I know. But it is the truth."
"..."
My face was draining white in real time.
Then, she burst out laughing.
"Loosen up that expression. Anyone watching would think you were being dragged to the slaughterhouse."
"...What?"
"A joke. Surely you didn't think we were mad enough to behead a man for showing up fifteen minutes late."
"Oh— oh! R- right. Of course. You were joking."
Only now did it dawn on me.
So this was the new-hire hazing, that kind of thing.
"Ahaha. Ahahahaha."
You scared me half to death.
"Execution — good heavens, you really got me. That prank went too far. Hahaha."
"Ah, no. That part was true."
"...What?"
Son of a—
"He failed to catch a shipment of contraband and waved it right through, and as ill luck would have it, the thing was an explosive artifact — it went off in the middle of the Eastern Great Plains. He was executed for that crime."
"..."
"Of course, announcing the true reason would have caused a diplomatic incident, so the official line was lateness. Consider that the surface justification."
My face went paper-white all over again.
I had come to the wrong place.
Genuinely, thoroughly, catastrophically the wrong place.
But it was far too late to run. And why, you ask?
"Now then, it is time we made our way into the Immigration Office."
Because her hand was already locked firmly around my arm.
"Welcome to the ranks of the Immigration Officers, Nathan Kell. I am truly delighted to have you with us!"
And so my fate was sealed.