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On August
9th 2111 Eric Wheiner was elected Premier for his first five-year
term of office.
He took office in the wee hours of the year
2112.
This happens almost four years later in November 2115.
"We
better keep this short. I don't know how long we can fog the
satellite surveillance but—"
"What
about the transponder in your bionics?"
The
colonel wordlessly crumpled his left sleeve, showed the empty
socket underneath it. No bionic transponder this time. The
resistance leader nodded. A single green eye gleamed in a narrow,
almost haggard face, still looking like a thirty-year-old's. The
other was hidden under a dirty grey flap.
Thirty.
He looked still young for his age. The colonel knew for a fact
that the man was over forty now. And only the last couple years
had added the lines that made the thirty believable.
The
silence expanded. Lasted. They didn't have time for that but
neither wanted to break it apart.
"How
is she?" the colonel finally asked, more anxiously than he
wanted.
"Alive." The
word was rough, final. There wouldn't be any more information.
"Yours?"
The question
surprised the officer, made him stuff his right hand deeper into
the pocket of his grey uniform coat. "He's serving on the
Gilead now." Silence. "Flight officer." Silence.
No admittance that that made his son this man's enemy. But then,
he was supposed to be this man's enemy, too. "And Jess...
she took the Chimaira to Andor last year." He wouldn't see
his daughter again anytime soon.
"The
Chimaira was taken down in the asteroid belt." The voice was
low, emotionless. The colonel closed his eyes, forced the pain
down. "Government troops. No survivors." Also no
compassion, no offer of comfort. The resistance leader was beyond
that.
The colonel's throat
tightened. He swallowed dryly, rigorously squelching the pain,
pulling a small package from his coat pocket. The resistance
leader tensed, hand reaching for the weapon the colonel knew must
be there. He didn't acknowledge the gesture. "Here. He
wanted you to have this."
A
small package of worn, tattered cloth lay in the palm of his
natural right hand. The resistance leader took it slowly,
tentatively, unfolding it with hesitant, somehow awkward
movements, and studied it with his one, remaining eye.
A
base insignia, a growling wolf's head, that had almost lost its
colors to age...
It was almost
lost in the narrow hand of the tall man who turned it around. On
its back, written in black marker, was a single word:
*GO!*
The green eye searched his
face in surprise. Behind them a door banged open. The colonel
twitched. A woman cradling an assault rifle in her elbow briskly
entered the room. The resistance leader didn't so much as turn to
her. He didn't have to.
"We
gotta leave. They're closing in."
Short
cropped red hair gleamed briefly in the white light of the
illuminated cross adorning the church on the other side of the
street. Two angry red scars crossed a pale, delicate cheek.
Violet, glittering eyes brushed over the colonel before they
turned their attention to the street outside. If there was
recognition, it wasn't shown. The two moved as one. Synchronized
shadows slipping through the door, melting into the foggy shadows
outside.
The colonel was alone
in the dirty, ramshackle apartment. "I hope you follow his
wish and go," he whispered into the emptiness. "Leave."
An
hour later the resistance leader huddled in shadow, leaned
against the woman, sharing warmth and comfort, even strength with
her. ...What did he say?... her thoughts asked in his mind. The
insignia was placed in her hands. She sensed. She straightened,
violet gleaming eyes searching his green one...
"We
strike."
He said it out
loud.
Ann-Kathrin
Kniggendorf, Hildesheim 2004-11-04
"It is difficult to
write funny stories when life imitates Barb Wire."
Special
thanks to S. Trivia Blank for editing this on short notice. |