“Luis will be your host now. I hope he entertains,” he said before he stood up to leave the room. He patted Luis on the shoulder before exiting, taking the two troops with him.
Izzat was seated roughly in the chair opposite Colonel Husan. He held his untreated arm tightly, clearly in pain. The door shut, both men now locked in. Husan glanced at the mirror, knowing it was of course, only one-sided. On the other side, someone was watching, waiting for either one of them to break. He then looked over at the young soldier, his expression as stern as he could muster, but his eyes betrayed his terrified state.
“Are you all right, Allawi?” Husan asked. It was the most he could do to comfort him at the moment. The private looked away, the question being rather pointless to answer. Izzat dared to ask himself if he should’ve just let his fellow soldier die on that floor. If he had never stepped in, so much would be different. Now his friend had the luxury of death, while his own bravery had landed him in the grip of the devil.
“Yes, are you okay?” asked Luis as he stepped closer to the table. The soldier shuddered as he came closer, though the cyborg seemed to pay no mind to this.
“Your injury is a severe one, but not one our doctors couldn’t handle. If you tell us what we want to know, maybe we can get you some medical attention.”
Izzat looked up at Luis upon hearing this statement. He didn’t have the access to any information, but the colonel did. Surely, enough blood has been spilled already. Luis did not meet the soldier’s gaze. He paid more attention to the Husan’s reaction. The colonel seemed indifferent, which surprised them both, really. He won’t even say a word, thought the frustrated soldier, please, sir!
“I think–” Izzat began to say, choking on his own dry throat as he spoke. His superior officer interrupted:
“This goes beyond you and me, Private! You were trained for this, now SILENCE!”
“But, sir–”
Luis sighed, “So be it.”
He then grabbed the private’s already snapped forearm, twisting it again. Once more, a loud snap of bone could be heard, and once more, it was accompanied by a deafening scream of agony. Izzat fell out of his chair, writhing in an unbelievable amount of pain. Tears ran down his face, and he dared not lay a finger on his ravaged arm. Sticking out of his flesh was a piece of split bone. His sleeve was slowly stained with blood.
“Damn, sorry about that. I don’t know if our doctors can fix that. Not without amputating it of course,” Luis said.
Izzat’s screams were becoming unbearable at this point. He simply would not stop. But how could he? The colonel was no less than in shock himself. It seemed not even Luis could stand it for long.
“Shut up, please,” he said coldly, kicking him straight in the stomach. Not full force, but enough to indeed shut him up. The young man had curled into a fetal position, staring at something no one else in the room could see. From what Husan could tell Izzat was still conscious, but he was surely almost done. He was sure the boy couldn’t take much more.
“It’s a shame you’re so fragile,” Luis said. He then turned his attention back to Husan, “Well, what’s it going to be, Colonel? Surely you don’t want to see this brave soldier of yours suffer more than he has already.”
The colonel swallowed hard. The best thing he could do was accept that sacrifice was indeed inevitable, especially at this point.
“I still refuse.”
“So, you’re willing to sacrifice one of your men to protect the traitors? I admire that, really. You must have strong faith in them. And yet, they’re not here to save you.”
Not to his surprise, Husan didn’t respond. This is pointless, Luis thought. Time to wrap this up. He looked down at the wounded soldier, who was quieter now, shivering as if he’d been dipped in frigid water. In shock, most likely, he assumed. The cyborg smiled.
“Well, you’re no good to me anymore, Izzat.” Luis grabbed the soldier by his hair, lifting him off his feet. For what it was worth, the poor soul squirmed with whatever he had left.
Husan wanted to turn away, but by the time he started to move his neck, it was already done. The cyborg slammed the soldier’s face into his knee. The sound alone was repulsive beyond comprehension, the sight even worse.
Blood trickled down Izzat’s face as his eyes rolled back into his head. His skull was split; he was now unquestionably, dead. Luis noted the horrified look on the colonel’s face as he let Izzat’s body drop to the floor. Luis’ eyes remained calm, unchanged by what he’d done. He merely kept his stare at Husan.
“Unfortunate. I bet Izzat Allawi was a good soldier. Brave, but ultimately killed by his own stupidity,” he said as he sat down where the soldier once had. “You have two choices, Husan. You can go down to the Detention Center with the rest of your men, or spend another hour or two in here with me. Though I warn you, I’m starting to think you’re just as useless as your soldier on the floor over there.”
“I’ll tell you as much as I know,” Husan finally said. He’d thought he’d be stronger, but he just wasn’t. He hated himself for his cowardice, but he simply could not keep it up any longer. In the room behind the mirror, the spectators watched with a sense of relief.
“Damn good job, Luis. Works every time” applauded Kane. Will smiled to himself. Luis definitely has the people skills, he mused. Now we’ll be one step closer to ending this pathetic little revolt. With this kind of morale, it won’t be long.
“Thank you for your cooperation. It’s much appreciated,” Luis said as he turned around to leave.
“Will I be charged with treason?” Husan asked.
“Only after a fair trial, of course. I’m sure the Chancellor will give you some leeway considering the information you’ve given us,” he replied as he exited the room.
Two UNR soldiers entered to dispose of the corpse. Husan looked away as the body was dragged out of the room. Even so, he could feel his teeth biting into his lip, his body quivering, and his eyes watering. Few noticed this, and if they did, their attention was soon elsewhere.
Everyone watched as Luis entered the observation room, meeting him with pats on the back and a few claps. Kane more than anyone, was greatly pleased.
“Congratulations,” he said, looking at both Luis and Will with a prideful smile. “You two will be heroes once all the traitors have been brought to justice. This information has already been wired to the Chancellor himself. His response was more than positive. He’s announced that he’ll be having a speech tomorrow in recognition for your acts.”
“We’re honored, sir,” said Will. Luis joined him in bowing respectively.
“Take some time off, all right? And remember to have that armor fully detailed before you get on that stage. I’m looking at you, Luis.”
“Yes, sir!” they said in sync.
Kane nodded in approval and then turned to leave, but Will wasn’t quite done.
“Sir, excuse me, but I’d like to speak with you for a minute.”
“Sure, I don’t see why not,” Kane said, sounding surprised. Luis as well waited to hear what Will had on his mind.
“Hearing what that man had to say, got me thinking about some other possibilities.”
Kane didn’t look especially happy. Not angry, but some odd cross between exhaustion and disappointment. The ecstatic man he was a minute ago was now gone.
“We all know exactly who you’re referring to, Will. As much information as he’s provided over the years, that well has dried up,” he said plainly.
“Perhaps so, sir, but I won’t feel right for the rest of the day if I don’t take a crack at this.”
“Fine, just promise you’ll meet up with Johnson when you’re done. We only get to see the bastard once every blue moon as it is.”
“Thank you, sir, and of course.”
Luis’ mind was on this recent development. If Major Johnson is back in town, then she must be back in the country as well. Today is turning into quite a day.
Chapter 4 – An Old Acquaintan
ce
January 11, 2044 – Lafayette Square, Washington, D.C.
Andrew Jackson, atop his battle ready steed, watched the chaos building before him. It was a ghastly and repugnant sight. Jackson’s stern face did not turn away. He observed the filth encircling him without emotion. It was a night of snarling cold, and yet a yellow glow was reflected upon the gloss of his skin.
The eloquent Decatur House was bathed in a monstrous fire, as were the 726 and 736 Jackson Place buildings. The charcoal gray haze created by the flames smothered the landscape, and ashes rained down like a winter dance. Beautiful orange-yellow embers landed among the luscious trees, and soon, they too were a part of the great warm ambiance. The surge of yelling and chanting seemed abrasive enough to shatter windows, but Jackson did not ride off into battle. He did not draw his sword, or his firearm. He remained calm and stoic at the center of Lafayette Square.
The helicopter flew over the D.C. area like a vulture encircling a carcass. The burning buildings were but a backdrop for the feast below, which was the focus of everyone’s attention.
“This is Cynthia Pauletti, live at what is turning out to be one of the most violent riots in history. The initially peaceful demonstration in President’s Park exploded into chaos after President Howard moved today’s public address to yet another unofficial date. Apparently, the Federal Reserve needed more time to debate the just solution to our fiscal dilemma. Many groups were gathered here today in bulk with different agendas, among them anti-immigration, war protestors, and by far the largest group being the unemployed.”
The camera’s point of view switched from the young reporter to the crowds below, fanning out through the historic area. Hordes of angry men and women carried their messages, along with their weapons. Somewhere along the line, somebody started handing out Molotov cocktails, seeing as much of Lafayette Square and the Ellipse Park were ablaze, trees and buildings alike.
The helicopter spotted a fire truck that had been abandoned before it could ever reach a hydrant. Turned over police cars lay everywhere as well. The situation was growing more and more egregious by the second. The masses were progressing ever nearer to the still untouched White House.
“It’s pure chaos down there,” Pauletti said, as the chopper veered away from the columns of smoke for another pass, “the National Guard and Marines are being sent in as we speak to aid local police. One has to ask, though, just how long will it take to get this hell under control?”
***
The advancing mobs found themselves confronted with a solid wall of armored men and women. Out to the sides were the National Guard, in the middle was the holding place of the Marines. The crowds seemed to come to a halt at the guarded White House fences, in between the chaos and order, to the satisfaction of the Captain.
Captain Halsey was out in front of the crowds holding a megaphone. His helmet currently removed, one could see his short cut blonde hair, his baby blue eyes. He knew very well the only thing keeping the animals back were the men and women behind him with their drawn weapons, not his Marine uniform. They were vastly outnumbered on the ground, but Halsey took note of the air. The news chopper was gone, or at least far enough away that he was no longer able to see it. Instead, military Blackhawks circled the crowds like birds of prey, at the same time blaring commands on their speakers.
“RESIDENTS, RETURN TO YOUR HOMES IMMEDIATELY!!” yelled Halsey into the megaphone, “RETURN TO YOUR HOMES IMMEDIATELY!!”
He studied the signs and banners as he barked his commands. One read Create Jobs Now! Another, exceptionally long banner said in bold red lettering Bring My Children Home!
The crowd was moving closer, less than twelve meters away. By now he could see their faces, representing all ages and races. All were united in their shared fury, and Halsey saw the rage in their eyes. Many, he sadly noted, were armed. Several of the rioters had scarves wrapped around their mouths. They’re ready for what’s about to go down.
Halsey was well aware of the inevitable outcome, but he went ahead with the warning anyway.
“Be advised, we will be using live ammunition and tear gas! This is your LAST CHANCE!!”
At that moment a flying Molotov cocktail struck a Marine to the left of Halsey, who was immediately sent into a world of agony. The time for talking was done. Nobody held back as both sides sprayed bullets onto one another.
From their perches in the sky, in strapped down seats, sharpshooters fired off rounds into the bulging masses. Tear gas began to move through the crispy remains of the trees. Halsey quickly put on his gas mask as the crowd came at him like a rabid stampede. In place of the megaphone, he raised his handgun and fired off a short burst. Three nameless faces went down, and he advanced. Upon a park bench, an older man stood, ready to hurl another fireball, as Halsey put two shots into his chest. He heard the sound of the bottle shatter and then the bench became a bonfire. The crowds were moving backward into the park, but many held their positions and fought.
Halsey took cover behind a hammered Pontiac, the beaten automobile serving as a temporary shield. He switched from his handgun to his M-16, with the feeling he wasn’t alone as fighting intensified. However, all he saw next to him was the body of a police officer, a bullet wound in the man’s throat.
He heard a gunshot blow away the last remaining window on the car, followed by two more unsuccessful shots. Another sounded like it struck a tire, the air hissing. Halsey could only assume that whoever it was had killed his fellow brother, and was probably camped out right in front of him planning some sort of ambush. Flank his ass, all you can do. His grip on the weapon tightened and Halsey broke his cover to go back into the aimless fight. He ran into the park trying to stay low.
Almost instantly, a tall figure came at him with a hand-held weapon, he couldn’t identify what exactly. His beloved weapon spat up a few rounds, and the silhouette dropped to the grass in the park.
He walked through the grass, damp with the night’s dew, with caution. He could make out the sound of erratic breathing just ahead. Halsey arrived at the wounded man’s feet just as a fire broke out in the bushes next to him. The soldier could feel its heat, aggravated under his armor. The light gave him a clear view of what he had been up against.
Halsey saw a man of Hispanic descent with a face free of any truly matured features. His dark auburn eyes looked up at him; his teeth were stained with blood. The fact that he was still clinging to life was amazing. He wore a brown coat, now soaked in blood. He had two bullet wounds along his chest, close to the buttons alongside the zipper of his coat. Next to his hand was a hefty looking wooden bat. Halsey fired one more shot to end it all for the man, but he couldn’t walk away just yet.
Look at him, he’s probably no older than me. Halsey himself wasn’t even twenty yet, and he refused to acknowledge the thought that maybe the kid was even younger. Those precious early years, as his father had often referred to them, and yet here was this young man, now a corpse. And here I am. Halsey began to walk away now, not daring to look back in that direction. He just wanted to advance with the others.
Every other soldier seemed to be out-pacing him, leaving behind the bodies of more dissidents. Bodies of men and women in everyday clothes that resembled all too closely his uncle or his cousin. Curses and screams cried out together as gunshot after gunshot echoed in the night. Halsey ignored his surroundings, trying his best to keep his eyes strictly ahead. For a second there, he believed he could avoid the reality of what was going on by doing so.
All the same, it caught up to him as he heard a rustle in the bushes up ahead. This gave him pause, every muscle in his body tightening. The soldier stood there like a statue, his finger right on the trigger, and sweat trickling down his body in torrents. Over a minute of waiting passed, but there was no more movement or noise.
Halsey inched his way closer, right up to what he believed to be the source of the noise. To hell with it. He cleared some leaves out of the way with his arm before pointing his gun at the tar
get hidden within.
Crouched down as if in a war-ridden trench, was a boy in his teens. His head was bleeding severely, either someone had struck him hard, or perhaps he’d been trampled in the excitement. His wound didn’t seem to faze him, though. His eyes were locked onto the mouth of the gun pointed down at him. The sight of the boy hit Halsey like a sharp blow to the chest, taking all the air out of his lungs.
The boy’s skin and hair, the darkness of his eyes– it was too horrifyingly clear. Halsey felt himself trembling, knowing there was not a goddamned thing to say, not a goddamned thing. Had the boy watched his brother die? Did he realize it was by the same man who now had his gun pointed down at him? These were questions he dearly hoped only God knew. Questions he knew would decimate his mind if he pondered them for too long. He continued on, leaving the boy in solitude. The sign the child had held now lay at his feet, but it stayed with Halsey regardless:
Please Bring My Daddy Home
The solider walked past the statue in the park center, hoping to live up to its nobility, but he knew he could not. He had succeeded, and yet he had also failed miserably. Of all the things that burned down that night, the statue of Jackson remained.
***
April 4, 2065- Detention Center Cell No. 0219, UNR Headquarters
The small room was a nearly empty one as well. The only things in it were the small mattress and the shivering man who laid on it. The thin sheet that covered him did little to warm his body, his only other aid being the ragged inmate uniform he was forced to wear. It was a drab gray, along with everything else in the room. His hunger stabbed at him, his dinner of oatmeal and lukewarm water being hardly sufficient. His weary eyes told him it was growing late, but with no windows in his cell, he wasn’t sure what time it was.
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