How fortunate, and lucky, they had been to discover exactly what the crystals were. Even if the ‘hoppers couldn’t reproduce, they still made excellent slaves. Which only made that business venture even more profitable.
He lifted his glass and toasted the hologram of his family. Yes, they would be quite pleased.
The Good Little Boy
"Now did you put all your toys away like I asked you to?"
"Yes, Mommy," Joey Bradley called from the living room.
Susan Bradley came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish towel. "In that case you deserve a reward. How would you like a nice scoop of ice cream with sprinkles on top?"
"Oh, yes, Mommy, yes." Joey jumped up and down and grabbed his mother's hand as they returned to the kitchen. "Can I have chocolate sauce, too?"
"We'll see if we have any," she said as she opened the freezer and pulled out the ice cream. Seconds later she was setting his reward in front of him. "Now tuck the napkin under your chin; we don't want you dripping anything on your clean shirt now, do
we?"
"No, Mommy," he nodded eagerly as he dug into the dessert.
"Such a good boy," she tousled his hair, then returned to her dishes still beaming.
A few minutes later Joey brought his empty dish up to the sink. Can I go out and play?"
She looked outside but saw no one through their tall fence. "I suppose, but be sure to stay in the back yard, okay?"
"Okay, Mommy. Love you," and he gave her a quick peck on the cheek before rushing outside.
She grimaced slightly as the door slammed behind him; she thought she had broken him of that habit. Then she shrugged. Boys will be boys. But she did make a mental note to talk to him about that during their lessons.
"All done, Mommy. Come look!"
Mrs. Bradley stopped mashing potatoes and walked over to the kitchen table to admire his accomplishment. "That's excellent! All the letters are nice and neat. And within the lines! I think you deserve a star for this." She took an orange crayon and drew a big star on top of the page, then added a smile for good measure. "You're daddy will be quite proud of you."
The mention of his father shifted Joey's attention to more immediate concerns. "When's Daddy coming home? I'm getting hungry."
She looked up at the clock. "Any minute now. He might have had to work late at the office."
“He works late a lot," Joey pouted.
"He works late so we can have everything we have. Including you," and she kissed him on the forehead. As if on cue they heard a car pull into the drive-way. "Speak of the devil. Go wash up; supper will be ready in a few minutes."
With a whoop Joey jumped out of the chair and instead raced to the front door. Seconds later she heard the door open, then Joey yell out an enthusiastic greeting. Her husband came into the kitchen carrying their son. "Look what followed me home," he said with a grin, then set Joey down. "Can I keep him?"
"Not if he doesn't wash up for supper," she said with mock severity.
"I'm going right now," Joey said and dashed to the bathroom while his father sighed and set down his briefcase.
"Busy day?" she asked as she set the food on the table.
"The Corcoran account is becoming a real bear. How was yours?"
Before she could answer Joey was back and standing in front of her, hands outstretched. She checked both sides, smiled and nodded and they sat down to eat.
"So what did we do today?" Mr. Bradley asked while spooning out gravy on his plate.
"Mommy let me play outside for a bit. And I worked on my ABC's!" Joey replied proudly.
"Really?" He glanced at his wife before returning his attention to his son. "Can you recite the alphabet for me?"
"A, b, c," Joey began and got all the way to "P" before hesitating. "Z," he finished proudly.
"Not bad, I'm proud of you," his father nodded. But the look he gave his wife said otherwise.
Mr. Bradley pulled out the Disney video and turned off the TV. "Time for bed, little man."
"Oh, Daddy, do I have ta?" and Joey kicked his feet in frustration.
"You know better," he said, looking at the clock. "It's nearly eight and good little boys need their rest. Now give Mommy and Daddy a hug and put on your pajamas and get in bed. We'll tuck you in in a minute."
Fighting back tears, Joey gave each of his parents a quick kiss and plodded off to the bedroom. Mr. Bradley was shaking his head when he sat down. "Every night it's the same thing." He rustled the newspaper for emphasis.
"Now, dear, all children are like that."
"He shouldn't be." Then he set down his paper. "And what's this with his lessons? And letting him outside?"
"No one was around. It's not good for him to be cooped up in the house all day."
"Still we have to be careful. After what happened last time."
She shuddered at the memory. "You know that can't happen. The Embryonics Institute assured us of that."
He threw the paper on the floor. "There is no guarantee, you know that. Especially when you're giving him lessons!"
"Dear, he should learn to read and write, don't you think? It's only natural he would want to learn."
"Natural?" He snorted. "Reading, writing, where does it end? You know where it ends. He'll be like our last son, an ungrateful, lying, thieving son of a bitch!"
She couldn't argue with that, so she considered her words carefully. "The Institute gave us exactly what we asked for."
"And charged us plenty for him, too!"
"Not so loud! He shouldn't hear us fighting."
"I'm not fighting. I'm just... stating my opinion." Still he said the last more softly.
She decided it best to change the subject. "You know Joey's got a birthday coming up next month. He keeps asking me for a bicycle."
"And having him racing around the neighborhood? Riding in the streets?" He shook his head. "Isn't safe."
"Charles, he's a child. He has to grow!"
Her husband glared at her. "That's not what we paid for and you know it."
Her response was cut off from the back bedroom. "Mommy, will you tuck me in?"
"Coming, dear." She walked to Joey's bedroom and found him already under the covers. "Good night, dear, and sleep tight."
"And don't let the bed bugs bite!" he responded with a giggle.
She turned off the light then stood in the doorway and gazed lovingly at him. Almost 23 and he didn't look a day over five. Her husband was right, she had to agree. The Embryonics Institute had given them a very good little boy. The best money could buy.
GOOD PROVIDER
"Good morning, doctor! So nice to hear you this day. Yes, I can tell it is you, not one of the nurses. Nurses swish when they walk. But you, you walk with a firm tread, a confident foot. A man going places.
"I bet I can guess how you look, too. 'Bout thirty-five, but a young thirty-five. Dark, neatly trimmed hair and a mustache. Looks good on you, too. Say six-two, 185 pounds. Popular with the ladies.
"I knew I'd be close! I've gotten pretty good with my ears since you took my eyes. Bet you wish you had taken my tongue, too!
"So tell me, what are you using this time? Take it all, I don't mind. I'm proud to be a good provider. Did you know my right leg is helping build the station at Callistro? Yes indeed. Why, I'm a very important part of some very important people, I'll have you know. My kidneys sit on the Supreme Court of Malmont. My eyes and liver are exploring the 14th quadrant even as we speak. I'm mighty proud of my liver, believe-you-me!
"Let me ask you something, a little favor if you would. Would you graft my penis onto one of those sex-vid stars? Just joking, just joking! So what are you taking this time? My heart, my thyroid gland, my lungs, what?
"Oh, just go ahead and surprise me! As long as I'm being a good provider and helping out someone who really needs it, I don't mind. Actually I'm proud that I've been able to help so many. I didn't smoke when I was young, no way. Didn't drink much, never caught a disease of passio
n. No broken bones, no rheumatism or allergies or arthritis or cavities or anything like that. I'm sure you don't get any complaints when you install one of my parts!
"I can feel you putting me under. No more talking, eh? You just go ahead and take what you need. What was that old song? 'All of me, why don't you take all of me?' I don't mind; I don't mind at all."
"Pretty crazy. And pretty spooky," the intern offered as he washed up.
"Not as unusual as you might think," the doctor in charge replied, drying his hands. "We do condition them to the provider concept at an early age. The more willing they are, the healthier the organs and the better the transplants. But his rationalization is a bit extreme."
"Still; thinking he's contributed to an astronaut. And a judge!"
"He may be right, we'll never know. We get the order, we select the most appropriate provider, snip and ship."
"So what are we taking this time?"
"Burn victim needs skin and nerve grafts. While we're in there we may as well take his spleen and lower intestinal tract as well."
"Might as well take everything."
The doctor shook his head. "No, best he remains alive. Organs stay fresher that way." He dried his hands. "He's been with us two weeks; he's good for another few days at least."
"I wonder what he did," the intern said as they made their way to the operating room.
"To become a provider? Jaywalking, mass murder; does it matter? You break a law, you become a provider. That’s the way it has to be."
THE CAGE WITHIN
The roaches have decided to feed me today. They are so amusing, these peasants lost within their tattered uniforms. They have no understanding how to wear one. It must become part of you, an extra layer of skin if you will. It must infuse your soul and mind with the responsibilities it signifies. It is the history the uniform represents that is significant, not the man or woman who dons it. These little men have no comprehension of this.
It disgusts me to see them strut like peacocks in front of my enclosure. Of course I could escape if I desired. But that would imply that I was wrong in performing my duty, meeting my obligations to my country, my uniform, history. Such an admittance is unacceptable.
Their rations are adequate, such as they are. I have fared better, of course. If our positions were reversed, I would surely offer harsher treatment. Enemies of the state should expect no less. I have offered less.
The young guard is watching as I eat. A farm boy surely, with totally inadequate training. He should be standing silent and at attention as his superiors dine. This one slouches against the wall, an arrogant grin on his bovine face. You think you have won, don't you, child? Yes, watch me, a dull rooster trying to guard the henhouse against the marauding fox. Are you afraid I will steal the silverware? As if you could stop me. As if any of you could stop me!
Have you never seen a man write while he eats? A feat beyond your limited capabilities I am sure. Perhaps someday you will read this. Perhaps you may even be able to understand it. Doubtful.
I smile at him as I place my dirty service in front of my door. He remains at his station until I retreat to the back of my room. Foolish boy; I have no interest in you. Does the eagle concern himself with the ants beneath his claws? No, you are not worthy of my attention. None of you are.
*****
They have given me clean clothing to wear, but I refuse. The socks and underwear I will change, of course, but not my uniform. They claim they want me to look "presentable" for my trial. As if they are in any position to sit in judgment of me!
Was it not Churchill who said the Right of Rule is Right Absolute? Or perhaps Clemenceau. If I had the resources I could research the quote exactly. They must believe that by isolating me from my people, my country, that they will silence the uproar that surely is erupting beyond these walls.
That is what most offends me about this incarceration: the enforced isolation. How can I help lead my country when I am so brutally prevented? The roaches understand so little about leadership. What must be done must be done; a true leader has the courage and vision to do what is necessary. These men--and I am reluctant to call them so--lack both.
And why has this "trial" not started? Do they keep me thus in order to break my spirit? They are mistaken if that is indeed their intent. Or perhaps it is fear. Yes, fear; fear that their tribunal will understand the necessity of my actions. Any man, especially a strong leader, would find me blameless of anything save bad luck and a slight mistake in judgment. Yes, that I must admit to. Putting my trust in men who weakened under the pressure of war.
Yes, it was my mistake not to fully educate a few of my followers on the obligations of the military. But in the final analysis it was their weakness, not mine. The tribunal will understand that as well. When I am released, those traitors will be the first to feel my wrath. The roaches will follow.
*****
They tell me the trial will finally begin. They have amassed their evidence, they claim. Evidence! Is it not evident that I am the victim, not them? A victim of traitors within and without.
What can they accuse me of? In war, all is necessary. Our history is the ultimate proof of that. How many times have the roaches proven their own culpability? How many times had they slaughtered my people, ignoring our humanity, befouling our shared land? They have no right to share our land in any event. I remember vividly the stories my grandmother told me, the stories her grandmother told her. The roaches came here weak and beaten, thrown out of their own country by a stronger, more courageous enemy. We welcomed them, succored them in their pain and anguish. And they repaid us many times over by trying to dominate us, persecute us, destroy our sense of country and destiny.
That is what we fight for, to regain the glory and promise of our past. To take back our land from these pitiful invaders. And they claim that I slaughtered the innocent?
There are no innocents in times of political repatriation. The bootblack or the die maker is as much the enemy as the soldier or the politician, sex and age is not a consideration. If the men who have the effrontery to judge me are truly fair-minded and right-minded--if they have not been blinded by the propaganda of the roaches--then they must understand this. I believe I will ask them to clean and press my uniform before I enter the chamber.
*****
I did not recognize anyone on the tribunal. Their names were strange-sounding; some were of foreign skin. The roaches lack the courage to judge me themselves, so they call in a panel of aliens. As if anyone save the most feeble-minded could find me guilty of any crime!
They had "appointed" me a representative. The boy is young and undisciplined; it is evident he lacks the benefit of military training. He is an additional obstacle, nothing more. I ignored him throughout the formalities and will continue to do so throughout my "trial."
The judges wore a sufficiently sober demeanor, trying without hope to legitimize these proceedings. Since I must consider myself a prisoner of war, I offered only my name, rank and serial number. Other questions I declined, citing the Geneva Convention.
They began by reading the litany of charges brought against me: the slaughter of over 5,000 "innocent" civilians, torture of prisoners, ordering the destruction of an entire village. "War crimes" they called them, as if such an act were possible! I must give the roaches some acknowledgment for seeking and finding small-minded men like themselves. Which means, of course, that they are not qualified to sit in judgment of me or my men.
The "prosecutors" contented themselves this day with parading a series of so-called "victims" to speak out against me. Each was more cowardly and unworthy than the one before. They asked if I regretted my actions. My only regret was that I had allowed these roaches to live. That, of course, I did not say.
One event did trouble me. One of my men, one of my own men, was brought in to testify. It was obvious, watching him on the stand, shaken and pale, all courage and military bearing drained from his body, that the roaches had been particularly thorough
in their indoctrination of him. I recognized him as a lowly private with whom I had had few direct dealings. He was young as well.
I could understand why they would choose one of his ilk to speak against me. An older officer would never have permitted himself to be swayed by their transparent arguments and psychological torment. He would have understood and approved my actions.
I noted that journalists were present. What message would they disseminate to my followers? I took extreme care to maintain my focus on the judges and, occasionally, the witnesses. Surely they could see that I was in command of the situation even as I sat shackled like a common criminal, a prisoner of the court. Surely at least one would understand the travesty that was being committed in the sullied name of justice. At the day's end they paraded me through the court as if I were merchandise on display. I ignored their inhumanity as I walked outside proudly, accompanied by camera flashes and reporter's questions. Let them take their photographs. Let the world see a man as heroic in captivity as he is in freedom. In particular, let my followers see me. Let their spirits be energized by my own undaunted soul. For prevail we shall!
*****
I have begun to lose count of the days. My trial has become mind-numbing in its predictable, endless repetition. Each new day unveils another parade of the enemy, sitting behind the safety of the lectern as they spew their unwarranted accusations at me. The mothers of sons, the fathers of fathers... the list goes on and on. After each, the tribunal asks if I am guilty as charged. Such effrontery. Clearly the only crime I am guilty of is laxity. If my soldiers had truly carried out my orders, then those accusing me would be incapable of doing so!
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