by Chris Walley
Merral considered his words. “Yet we must still do what is right, even if it costs us. Yes, that makes sense.”
“It’s little comfort, I’m afraid. But I must go. I will be in touch.”
“And me.”
“Give my love to your family and Isabella when you talk to them. I will pray for you.”
“Thanks. And I for you.”
Then abruptly, as if wishing to conceal some deep emotion, Vero turned and left.
Merral watched him go and then turned back to stare at the view. I never realized how much I had until I lost it.
A final whistle blast from the Team-Ball referee drifted up to him, and as he watched, the children began boisterously trooping off the pitch. Merral presumed they were leaving in time to see the historic broadcast. He watched their colorful animated figures moving away to their changing rooms. They were unaware—and would be for a little longer—that a permanent shadow had fallen over their lives.
As Merral watched them, the decision made itself.
He walked slowly back into the room and found his diary among his possessions in a drawer. He took it and strolled unhurriedly back out to the balcony. It would be easier for him to say what he had to say with the view of the woods and the sea in front of him than in the anonymous and universal hospital room.
As Merral switched the diary on, he saw that the restrictions on its use had been lifted. He had had calls from his family and from Isabella. Well, he would answer them in due course. He tapped the screen. “Get me Representative Anwar Corradon please.”
A moment later an image of a young man appeared, looking up from a pile of folders.
“I’m sorry. The representative is busy, I’m afraid. This is Jules, his office assistant. As you know, he’s speaking in a quarter of an hour. Can you leave a message please?”
“I want you to pass on a message to him now. Urgently.”
Jules’s face acquired a look of profound disbelief at the idea that anyone could wish such an action at this time. “I’m sorry. But he is engaged in preparing for this rather important broadcast.”
Merral tapped on the icon to transmit his name.
The man glanced at his screen and suddenly stiffened, his face flushing. “Oh . . . Captain D’Avanos, sir. I must apologize. I didn’t recognize you. The message was . . . ?”
“It is very simple, but he must hear it before the broadcast.”
“I’ll take it to him now. He’s next door. I do so apologize.”
“Your apology is accepted. Just tell him this.” Merral took a breath, closed his eyes, and then gave Jules the message.
It was just a single sentence.
After he had spoken it, the young man looked at him in perplexity. “Just that?”
“Just that. The exact words. He’ll understand. Thank you,” Merral said and flicked the diary off. He went into his room, put the diary down on the table, and turned the wallscreen on with the volume low.
Then he went out again on the balcony to continue staring at the view and feeling the sun on his face. There was so much he had to do, and so many perils he had to face.
He was still standing there when the “Hymn of the Assembly” sounded from the screen.
“Time,” Merral said aloud to no one, and he turned to go inside and watch the broadcast.
Time for all Farholme to hear that the long peace of the ages was finally over.
Time for them to be told that they faced awesome enemies.
Time too for them to hear that Commander Merral D’Avanos had accepted the burden of being in charge of their defense.
