Sorry for taking so long to post something new, life has been busy. I also apologize for the brevity of this particular post. Stay tuned for the next installment, which I promise shall be longer!
It was close to midnight before The Veteran decided to get up from the corner of the mostly demolished building and start making his way across the city. He had no Central Neural Computer to tell the time -the Government made the implantation of the CNC's at puberty mandatory about thirty years ago- but years serving in the military for the Zealots, combined with decades of living on the streets of the City In The West had given The Veteran an innate sense of time that was more or less spot-on. As he slowly shuffled out of the ruined building he bid a silent farewell to the Cobbler and his Wife, while vowing to find the Others, or die trying.
He knew that by the time he eventually found the Others, the Government Rebuilding Corporation would have already razed the rest of Building 451 Block C and begun construction on something newer, shinier, and more technologically advanced. Inwardly, The Veteran knew that the building wouldn't remain shiny and new for very long; perhaps a day's worth of exposure to the pollution, grime, and nasty rain would stain the building with a dark patina. Inside of a week the "new" building would be indistinguishable from the rest of the City. It was like that all over, and a key reason to The Veterans' inability to stay locked in on any true locations; everything changed, but everything always looked the same. Only the monolithic ebon ziggurats that loomed for miles over the rest of the buildings served as landmarks, and even then the fact that they were identical to each other in orientation and construction served to make navigation without the CNC nearly impossible.
The Veteran knew that the ocean was in the west, but he had no way of finding the west. There were no longer any printed maps, no signposts, nothing; each citizen of the City In The West navigated using their CNCs. The Veteran remembered one of the campaigns he had fought in during the War of Absolution, where the Zealot's geosynchronous satellite navigating system had been shot out of space, leaving the ground troops without any satcom or GPS; he had led his small squad of soldiers to the objective point using the sun and a compass. Now, he had neither; even if he had struck out on his journey during the middle of the day, the sun was obscured by smog and rain clouds anyhow; the only way to truly tell night from day was the murky gray light that managed to filter its way through the miles of layers of cloud and smog.
The only thing that The Veteran had at his disposal was the slight idea that, perhaps, the reason the rain always came down at the same angle was because of the slight breeze that seemed to be the always-constant companion to the murk and the rain, and that the origin of the breeze was, in fact, the ocean itself. He had a distant childhood memory (even as he wondered whether the memory was his, or whether it was something he had made up) of visiting the ocean once, well before the War and the smog and the oppressive Government, back when his parents were both still alive and the world seemed innocent and happy.
He shook his head, clearing his mind of such thoughts, and finished picking his way out of the building. Once he was back in the alley, he took a quick mental inventory of himself, especially checking his pockets for the artificial lung. Once he was satisfied that his very few worldly possessions were still about his person, he exited the alley and went to stand in the middle of the street. The rain was still coming down in buckets from heaven, but he threw his hood back and began to turn in a slow circle, trying his best to discern which direction the breeze was coming from. The rain pelting on his face, though, ruined everything. He lingered for a few moments more, until he began to look suspicious, and then flipped his hood back up over his head and moved to the side of the street, where he huddled under a doorway, trying to decide what to try next.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten in roughly 24 hours, and the more pressing concern of filling his belly caused him to abandon his mission, for now at least, and try to beg passerby for a food chit.
Showing posts with label The Veteran. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Veteran. Show all posts
Monday, May 12, 2008
Thursday, May 8, 2008
The Veteran: Part II
Part Two of "The Veteran." Again, super-rough-draft, so be kind!
The Veteran waited four full hours before he slowly began to pull himself together. It took another ten full minutes for him to shake all the debris from his body and rise to a sitting position. Sometime during the firefight, if it could have been called that, his hood had fallen back and rain now plastered his long graying hair to his skull and turned all the dust from the building into mud. Shivering, he wrapped his tattered cloak tighter around his body and flipped the hood up over his head, trying to reclaim some of his lost body heat.
The brutal efficiency of the police disturbed him to no end. They hadn't even bothered to see if they had left anybody alive inside Building 451 Block C; the sheer amount of firepower at their disposal pretty much guaranteed that any occupants were now dead. Despair welled up inside of The Veteran, and he hugged his knees and started to cry again. Though no stranger to death, even senseless death, the occupants of the Cobbler's store had been the first people in decades who had shown him any sort of interest, although their relationship had gone much further than that. They took him in whenever he came by, allowing him to shower in their tiny recycler, feeding him a full meal, and chatting with him about current events... and history.
After all it was the Cobbler and his Wife, both octogenarians and quickly approaching their 90's, who had introduced him to The Way. Their kindness, forthrightness, and sheer implacability had struck him to his very core, and had awakened something inside of him that had been long dead. They had explained to him about The One that had come, all these many millennia ago, to atone and to reconcile the entirety of Humanity to Himself. Upon first meeting them he had been both absolutely enthralled and totally horrified, all interconnected, as though the two could never be separated. After all, he had fought on the losing side, and had spent the last forty years listening to the propaganda of the Government about the evils of Free Thought.
The only thing that had kept him returning, at first, was their kindness and their willingness to allow the vagrant Veteran to use their recycler and their kitchen table. Over time, he ceased debating, and simply started listening.
In retrospect, that was probably the wisest thing he had done in his entire life.
Now, he turned his sorrowful eyes upon the ruined building. Before its destruction it had been an ancient cinderblock-and-mortar building that had hunched forlornly between two taller and more modern constructs. The Cobbler and his Wife had rented out their floor from a rather cantankerous Vietnamese couple who ran an illegal cyber-sitting service from the floor above them; they spent hours jacked into The System, monitoring children in various households throughout the City In The West for the busy parents. The Veteran wiped a grimy hand over his eyes, trying to smear the tears away, even as he distantly wondered what all those children were doing now, for it was obvious that the Cantankerous Vietnamese, too, had perished in the police assault.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, wincing when pain shot up his leg. He checked it briefly, ensuring that he hadn't somehow been hit by all the gunfire, then gave a sort of half-hearted shrug when he remembered that it was his old wound, protesting after having to stay immobile in such a cramped position for so long. Rain continued to pour from the sky, grimy and putrid, and The Veteran paid it no mind as he began to pick his way into the debris field of the building. He had no doubts that The Cobbler and his Wife were dead, but he had a desire to at least look upon them one last time.
He picked his way through the streams of nasty rain pouring from the gaps in the roof and ceiling, courtesy of the gunfire, and over the puddles that had formed over the past several hours. His memory of the small building wasn't complete, but he eventually made his way into the back rooms, where their tiny living area was, and where he was sure they would have retreated to in their final seconds of life.
The Veteran cast about for a few moments, puffing on his artificial lung from the exertion of picking through the debris, until he spotted a partially-curled hand sticking out from under their splintered kitchen table. He began to select a route through the detritus to the hand, then paused: did he really want to see them this way? Or did he want to remember them as they were, kind and firm and merry and healthy? After a few more moments of hesitation he took the last few steps, moving around a fallen section of the roof and the half of the table, and found the body of the Cobblers Wife. Despite the horrible wounds in her chest she had the most peaceful, restful look on her face, and the serenity that she possessed even in the midst of her horrific death shook The Veteran once more, and he began to weep, sinking to his knees and clasping her other free hand in his.
Eventually The Veteran rose to his feet once more, coughing and sobbing, and looked about for the Cobbler himself. He wouldn't have been far; The Veteran knew that he would have died trying to protect his Wife. He turned around and there, partially pinned by the very fallen section of the roof that he had skirted earlier, The Veteran saw the Cobbler; he realized that he must have walked right past the elderly man, so intent was he upon seeing the owner of the hand that had stuck out from under the table.
Grief and horror and anger welled up inside The Veteran, and in mere seconds he was kneeling by the old Cobbler, holding the old man's head in his lap, stroking the wispy white hair with his own gnarled and grimy hands, choking back sobs. The old Cobbler looked as if he had simply fallen asleep, as if he had decided that this was the spot that was the best for a good, long nap. Except, The Veteran knew, he would not be waking up from this nap; at least, not on this Earthly plane.
As he knelt there weeping, a slight movement caught The Veteran's attention. For a split second he ignored it, until he realized that the movement was coming from the Cobbler's mouth. The Veteran stopped sobbing and bent close, to see if the old Cobbler was truly moving his lips, even as he knew that he was simply imagining that the Cobbler was still alive, that perhaps he was projecting his own wishes upon the corpse of the poor old man.
But, no; shock stunned The Veteran when he realized that, indeed, the lips of the Cobbler were moving. He placed his ear next to the man's mouth and held his breath.
"I knew you would come. Go... go tell the rest."
"What 'rest,'" The Veteran gasped, his voice gravelly and deep with grief and surprise. The Cobbler's mouth worked for an instant, before the rest of the words came out in one final gasp, as if he had fought to stay alive for this very moment in time.
"The others who follow The Way... you will find them at the Southern Wharf, near Pier 192A... look for the sign..."
With that, the Cobbler breathed his last. Too shocked to move, The Veteran simply sat with the Cobbler's head still in his lap, a mixture of grief and wonderment filling his chest. There were others? He wondered why the Cobbler hadn't shared this with him before now.
How long he sat there, holding the deceased man's head in his lap and stroking the wispy hair, he couldn't say; he knew that when he looked down, most of the Cobbler's hair was now grimy from The Veteran's own filthy hands. Dismayed at what he saw as the defilement of the body of his only friend, he gently laid the Cobbler's head onto the floor and slowly, painfully, tried to stand. Eventually he made it to his feet and, wheezing, he hobbled to a corner of the building that the rain hadn't begun to invade yet, and leaning up against the wall he slid back to the ground, kicking plaster and debris away from him as he did so.
There were Others! This news was as exciting as the deaths of the Cobbler and his Wife were appalling. "There are Others," The Veteran said aloud, startling himself with his own voice. It wasn't often that he spoke aloud to himself, but when he did it was usually to repeat one of the Cobbler's stories about The One to himself, to help him fall asleep when the dreams from the War of Absolution came and haunted him. Stories about The One were the only things to keep the dreams away. The Veteran shook his head, trying to gather his disjointed thoughts, and began to repeat the location that the Cobbler had given him over and over, until he was sure he had it memorized. His deepest fear, at this point, was forgetting the location of the Others. Then, he truly would be alone in the City In The West; then, all he would have to look forward to would be his eventual, slow death.
"The Southern Wharf. Pier 192A. Look for the sign," The Veteran said. He gave a firm nod, resolving that, first thing tomorrow, he would begin the journey to the Southern Wharf. Wherever that was.
The Veteran waited four full hours before he slowly began to pull himself together. It took another ten full minutes for him to shake all the debris from his body and rise to a sitting position. Sometime during the firefight, if it could have been called that, his hood had fallen back and rain now plastered his long graying hair to his skull and turned all the dust from the building into mud. Shivering, he wrapped his tattered cloak tighter around his body and flipped the hood up over his head, trying to reclaim some of his lost body heat.
The brutal efficiency of the police disturbed him to no end. They hadn't even bothered to see if they had left anybody alive inside Building 451 Block C; the sheer amount of firepower at their disposal pretty much guaranteed that any occupants were now dead. Despair welled up inside of The Veteran, and he hugged his knees and started to cry again. Though no stranger to death, even senseless death, the occupants of the Cobbler's store had been the first people in decades who had shown him any sort of interest, although their relationship had gone much further than that. They took him in whenever he came by, allowing him to shower in their tiny recycler, feeding him a full meal, and chatting with him about current events... and history.
After all it was the Cobbler and his Wife, both octogenarians and quickly approaching their 90's, who had introduced him to The Way. Their kindness, forthrightness, and sheer implacability had struck him to his very core, and had awakened something inside of him that had been long dead. They had explained to him about The One that had come, all these many millennia ago, to atone and to reconcile the entirety of Humanity to Himself. Upon first meeting them he had been both absolutely enthralled and totally horrified, all interconnected, as though the two could never be separated. After all, he had fought on the losing side, and had spent the last forty years listening to the propaganda of the Government about the evils of Free Thought.
The only thing that had kept him returning, at first, was their kindness and their willingness to allow the vagrant Veteran to use their recycler and their kitchen table. Over time, he ceased debating, and simply started listening.
In retrospect, that was probably the wisest thing he had done in his entire life.
Now, he turned his sorrowful eyes upon the ruined building. Before its destruction it had been an ancient cinderblock-and-mortar building that had hunched forlornly between two taller and more modern constructs. The Cobbler and his Wife had rented out their floor from a rather cantankerous Vietnamese couple who ran an illegal cyber-sitting service from the floor above them; they spent hours jacked into The System, monitoring children in various households throughout the City In The West for the busy parents. The Veteran wiped a grimy hand over his eyes, trying to smear the tears away, even as he distantly wondered what all those children were doing now, for it was obvious that the Cantankerous Vietnamese, too, had perished in the police assault.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, wincing when pain shot up his leg. He checked it briefly, ensuring that he hadn't somehow been hit by all the gunfire, then gave a sort of half-hearted shrug when he remembered that it was his old wound, protesting after having to stay immobile in such a cramped position for so long. Rain continued to pour from the sky, grimy and putrid, and The Veteran paid it no mind as he began to pick his way into the debris field of the building. He had no doubts that The Cobbler and his Wife were dead, but he had a desire to at least look upon them one last time.
He picked his way through the streams of nasty rain pouring from the gaps in the roof and ceiling, courtesy of the gunfire, and over the puddles that had formed over the past several hours. His memory of the small building wasn't complete, but he eventually made his way into the back rooms, where their tiny living area was, and where he was sure they would have retreated to in their final seconds of life.
The Veteran cast about for a few moments, puffing on his artificial lung from the exertion of picking through the debris, until he spotted a partially-curled hand sticking out from under their splintered kitchen table. He began to select a route through the detritus to the hand, then paused: did he really want to see them this way? Or did he want to remember them as they were, kind and firm and merry and healthy? After a few more moments of hesitation he took the last few steps, moving around a fallen section of the roof and the half of the table, and found the body of the Cobblers Wife. Despite the horrible wounds in her chest she had the most peaceful, restful look on her face, and the serenity that she possessed even in the midst of her horrific death shook The Veteran once more, and he began to weep, sinking to his knees and clasping her other free hand in his.
Eventually The Veteran rose to his feet once more, coughing and sobbing, and looked about for the Cobbler himself. He wouldn't have been far; The Veteran knew that he would have died trying to protect his Wife. He turned around and there, partially pinned by the very fallen section of the roof that he had skirted earlier, The Veteran saw the Cobbler; he realized that he must have walked right past the elderly man, so intent was he upon seeing the owner of the hand that had stuck out from under the table.
Grief and horror and anger welled up inside The Veteran, and in mere seconds he was kneeling by the old Cobbler, holding the old man's head in his lap, stroking the wispy white hair with his own gnarled and grimy hands, choking back sobs. The old Cobbler looked as if he had simply fallen asleep, as if he had decided that this was the spot that was the best for a good, long nap. Except, The Veteran knew, he would not be waking up from this nap; at least, not on this Earthly plane.
As he knelt there weeping, a slight movement caught The Veteran's attention. For a split second he ignored it, until he realized that the movement was coming from the Cobbler's mouth. The Veteran stopped sobbing and bent close, to see if the old Cobbler was truly moving his lips, even as he knew that he was simply imagining that the Cobbler was still alive, that perhaps he was projecting his own wishes upon the corpse of the poor old man.
But, no; shock stunned The Veteran when he realized that, indeed, the lips of the Cobbler were moving. He placed his ear next to the man's mouth and held his breath.
"I knew you would come. Go... go tell the rest."
"What 'rest,'" The Veteran gasped, his voice gravelly and deep with grief and surprise. The Cobbler's mouth worked for an instant, before the rest of the words came out in one final gasp, as if he had fought to stay alive for this very moment in time.
"The others who follow The Way... you will find them at the Southern Wharf, near Pier 192A... look for the sign..."
With that, the Cobbler breathed his last. Too shocked to move, The Veteran simply sat with the Cobbler's head still in his lap, a mixture of grief and wonderment filling his chest. There were others? He wondered why the Cobbler hadn't shared this with him before now.
How long he sat there, holding the deceased man's head in his lap and stroking the wispy hair, he couldn't say; he knew that when he looked down, most of the Cobbler's hair was now grimy from The Veteran's own filthy hands. Dismayed at what he saw as the defilement of the body of his only friend, he gently laid the Cobbler's head onto the floor and slowly, painfully, tried to stand. Eventually he made it to his feet and, wheezing, he hobbled to a corner of the building that the rain hadn't begun to invade yet, and leaning up against the wall he slid back to the ground, kicking plaster and debris away from him as he did so.
There were Others! This news was as exciting as the deaths of the Cobbler and his Wife were appalling. "There are Others," The Veteran said aloud, startling himself with his own voice. It wasn't often that he spoke aloud to himself, but when he did it was usually to repeat one of the Cobbler's stories about The One to himself, to help him fall asleep when the dreams from the War of Absolution came and haunted him. Stories about The One were the only things to keep the dreams away. The Veteran shook his head, trying to gather his disjointed thoughts, and began to repeat the location that the Cobbler had given him over and over, until he was sure he had it memorized. His deepest fear, at this point, was forgetting the location of the Others. Then, he truly would be alone in the City In The West; then, all he would have to look forward to would be his eventual, slow death.
"The Southern Wharf. Pier 192A. Look for the sign," The Veteran said. He gave a firm nod, resolving that, first thing tomorrow, he would begin the journey to the Southern Wharf. Wherever that was.
Monday, May 5, 2008
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.
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.
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