The Veteran

Hey all... sorry for taking so long to post anything. Life's been awful busy on my end! Anyhow, I got home from work today and desperately had to write something. This is brand-spanking-new... so you are all the first to read this. I'm not sure where I'm going to go with it; maybe a short story, or a series of short stories. Perhaps, this could even be built into a novel. Like I said, I'm not positive where this is going. Either way, enjoy! Oh, and be kind... this is seriously rough-draft.

Dawn broke over the city, a cold and gloomy light filtering through the layers of smog that hovered constantly over the municipality. There was a threat of rain in the air… but when wasn't there? It was said that you could set your Central Neural Chrono by the rain. Though the sun was just rising, the City had never truly slept… perhaps, close to midnight, there had been a period where it could be said that it had slipped into a light doze, but never sleep.

Deep in the bowels of the inner city, beneath the towering black ziggurats that housed all the major departments of the Sun Conglomerate, below the several lanes of traffic, and almost hidden from sight, a figure wrapped a tattered and filthy cloak tighter around his frail shoulders and flipped the hood up over his head. His face was dark and creased with age and exposure to the pollution that cluttered the city from deep below the earth up to the very heavens; all but the most rich and famous bore some scars from the accumulated filth. He was a veteran of the War of Absolution, but very few knew that; in fact, there were times when even he forgot that he was a veteran.

Being on the losing side was never something to brag about.

He raised himself up from the piles of garbage that he had been dozing in, and a heavy cough wracked his frame. The Veteran tried to shrug it off, coughing heavily for a few moments, before giving in and pulling out a grimy artificial lung from his pocket and taking several deep breaths out of it. The fresh air quelled his rheumy cough for the time being and, shaking his head at the waste, he carefully folded the lung back up and stuffed it in his pocket. The lung had been a handout from SunCo, and he had managed to be one of the first in line that day; it was probably more luck than anything, he had simply been wandering past the distribution area when they opened the doors, but he was grateful for the lung. More than once it had put an end to his wracking cough. He knew, though, that the lung was nearing its use-by date, and The Veteran hoped that he could remember the exact location so he could get another when he ran out. He had a nagging fear that, unless he could gain a steady supply of artificial lungs, the cough would kill him.

It was funny, in an ironic sort of way; he should have died decades ago, during the War. A grenade had landed right next to him in the bunker that he and his squad-mates had taken refuge in, and The Veteran (he had been a SemiCorporal at the time) had frozen in panic; time seemed to stretch and compress, and before he could react in any way, one of his buddies threw himself atop the grenade, absorbing the full impact with his own body. The Veteran paused, trying to remember the name of the man who had sacrificed himself for his squad-mates; time and illness had stolen it from him, however.

Now, he eked out a meager existence in the bowels of the City In The West. Many hundreds of miles long and wide, there was no true center to the city, but if one could ever point their finger onto a plasma-map and say "This is the center," then he was there; more money and affluence flowed through this part of the City than any other. It was here that The Veteran begged for money so that he could buy a pint or so of broth and noodles; occasionally, he would splurge and buy a couple of ounces of rice. His mouth started watering, thinking about rice. Perhaps, today, I shall buy some rice, he thought.

He began to shuffle out of the side-alley. The Veteran had acquired a limp during the War, too… every now and then a shooting pain would jolt him out of his fog, lancing up from his right ankle all the way to his hip. He couldn't remember where he had received that wound; just another hazy memory, clustered in his skull with millions of other disjointed and half-remembered times. Just as he breached the alley, cold, fat raindrops began to fall from the murky sky.

The Veteran could remember a time when the rain would actually cleanse the sky, and bring with it a fresh smell in the air. Now, however, the rain came down oily and gray, and usually stirred up more unpleasant smells than it quelled. He was glad for his hood, and he limped with his shoulders hunched against the fetid liquid, heading toward the one area of The City that he had firmly entrenched in his mind.

It was the only part of The City that he truly knew by heart, and for good reason: it was the one place that he had learned how to truly live.

It was there that The Veteran had learned the true reason for the War of Absolution. Waged decades ago, the War had pitted the intellectual elite against the illiterate religious zealots. At the time, The Veteran had been very young and highly susceptible to influence, and had fought on the side of the zealots not truly understanding what the war had really been fought over. He was told that it was really about free speech, and about freedom of thought, and the freedom to choose. All he really knew, at the time, was that he was seventeen years old and willing to fight against something, and the Zealots had gotten to him first.

It was a shame, The Veteran reflected as he limped toward his goal, that the Zealots hadn't taken more time to explain to him what they truly meant by "freedom of thought." Oh, he still would have fought; if anything, he may have fought even harder. In the end, though, even The Veteran realized that it wouldn't have changed anything. The deck had been stacked against the Zealots from the beginning, and it was really only a matter of time before they were defeated and the leaders of the Zealots either executed or brainwashed.

Even today, The Veteran would catch glimpses on the Flimsies of the ancient leaders of the Zealots being trotted out by the government to rail against free thought. Every time that he saw them, a tear would leak from the corner of his eye; he knew that deep within their hearts, they would rather have been executed than turned into mindless zombies, spewing the filth of the Government.

As The Veteran limped down the crowded streets, he had to thread his way through the thick crowds that were gathering. Many of the folks had nothing better to do than simply walk the streets, looking for side work or causing trouble. A good number of the rest were on their way to or from their Government jobs, or were in their off-shifts, shopping for household goods or simply squandering their small stipends on random things.

Sirens wailed, drowning out the dull roar of the populace, and The Veteran ducked into an empty doorway and squatted down, becoming as small as possible. The chances that the sirens were meant for him were very slim, but he hadn't lived as long as he had by being lazy or rash. The police cruisers, however, were headed for a date with destiny elsewhere, and after the raucous sound of their sirens had faded into the background noise of the rest of the city, he climbed wearily back to his feet and continued on to his destination.

Several times along the way he had to stop and breath into his artificial lung, each time taking in only as much clean air as he needed before gently folding it back into his pocket. Worry crept into the back of his mind; he was needing the lung more and more. That was never a good sign.

It took him nearly twice as long as normal, but finally he glanced around, looking for the few landmarks that he had memorized; sure enough, there was the Android Repair Shop, right next door to the small mom-and-pop Cobbler. He ducked into the alleyway that was between the Cobblers and a Government-Approved Delicatessen and searched the wall on his right; between the third and fourth bricks, etched into the mortar, he found the symbol that he was looking for: <>< He knew he was on the right track.

The Veteran took a few tremulous breaths, then began to shuffle forward.

He hadn't taken four steps, however, before a blaring siren sounded off just behind him, along with several incredibly bright spotlights. Instinct took over and The Veteran fell to the ground, covering up with his cloak, as a booming voice drowned out all thought: "THE OCCUPANTS OF BUILDING 451 BLOCK C ARE UNDER ARREST FOR RELIGIOUS ZEALOTRY. YOU WILL EXIT WITH YOUR HANDS UP IMMEDIATELY: WE HAVE BEEN AUTHORIZED TO USE DEADLY FORCE."

Dread rose up in The Veteran's belly; for a moment, he wondered if he had been followed. However, he hadn't been arrested yet, nor had the police singled him out. They were directing their attention at the Cobblers.

A few tense moments ticked by, until a thin, querulous voice called out from the Cobbler's store. "You can kill my body, but you cannot kill my soul!"

"Ghost 'em," said the voice over the intercom, and immediately the air was filled with thousands of rounds of depleted uranium as the police opened fire. The Veteran hugged the ground, trying to crawl into the cement, as the air, already deadly, suddenly turned even more lethal. Dust and bits of mortar and stone rained down on The Veteran, pelting his body and causing him no small amount of pain; however, he remembered only too well what happened to soldiers who squirmed under fire, and so remained perfectly still under the assault.

The barrage continued for several minutes, until there was no way that any living being could be left alive inside the building; in fact, it was a sure thing that anybody behind or above Building 451 Block C was dead, too. The Veteran knew that the police would chalk it up to Zealot brutality, and that tomorrow he would see in the Flimsies about the vicious gun battle that took place between an outnumbered and gallant force of police and a ruthless and bloodthirsty band of Zealots.

Tears leaked from The Veterans eyes, leaving twin trails in the dust and muck that the City had deposited over the years. His only true friends in the world were now dead.