Thread: Asking for Directions {darkangel76 & Alan23}

The dawn of the last day Charles Marlowe Rennie Galvie McAuley would spend in the Republic of Amerika was not especially beautiful. There was no poetic, glorious burst of redgold color, no dramatic explosion from darkness. Simply a filtering in of muted, ambient light through the dusty, reinforced and barred glass of the holding cell, and some spasmodic and far from enthusiastic sqwarking of some nameless species of crow. Galvie's life had never been a romance. A tragedy, perhaps - but, more likely, a farce. The rising of the sun that day coincided with the changing of the guard. Private Trenchard, a taciturn, bespectacled sad-sack who wore his uniform with the charm and elegance of a squashed candy bar heaved himself up from the pallet where he had been sitting with loaded carbine, and surrendered his reluctant charge to a fat, wheezing corporal who introduced himself with the surname Maher. Corporal Maher was accompanied by an army cook, name not revealed, who carried a tin plate of bacon, beans, hash browns, scrambled eggs and pone bread, and a battered pannikin containing coffee. Galvie rummaged in the empty pockets of his newly supplied pants, pretending consternation. Kind of embarrassin,' he said, sarcastically. Left my wallet at home. I'd have liked to have tipped you, but... Maher, to his credit, managed a smirk, though the cook was unamused. The corporal checked that the door was securely locked, cocked his carbine, and sat on the pallet previously graced by Private Trenchard, the weapon pointed foursquare at Galvie's eyes. I don't deny, he admitted, that you have a certain style, Brit. What I'd have called chutzpah, almost, were I better disposed towards you. You owe me, though. And how so? asked Galvie, scooping up beans with the spoon - the only utensil they'd permitted him. Cookie craved ter spit on your breakfast, Maher explained. I stopped him. He grinned, showing uneven teeth. Mebbe I craved your last memory of our fair nation to be a pleasant one. I thank you for that, replied Galvie, and meant it. For a man taken as an assassin, a killer, any kindness was appreciated. You might have got me some salt, though. A thought struck him. Or did you think there was enough in the coffee, your cook, no doubt, having pissed in it? The corporal, taking neither his eyes nor the aim of the gun from Galvie approached, picked up the pannikin, took three swallows. Trust me now? he asked, unhurriedly retreating to the pallet. Twenty minutes later It was good to see a morning. They hadn't let him shower nor shave, nor comb his newly-hacked locks, but a sun was a sun was a sun. Warming, caressing. Well, he'd get no more caresses, he guessed. Just a chauffeur-driven ride South, a sham trial, or perhaps not so sham, for he was, after all, guilty and a final walk. A blindfold, a final cigar, the crack of bullets. No, scratch that last. The shot you hear is never the one that kills you. He could already picture the scene, ten men, white-faced, looking slightly guilty. Nine loaded guns there is always one blank, in one of the guns, so those detailed for execution squad duty can never know for total absolute surety they've killed bound, defenseless man in cold blood, a crisp order... If he'd have slept last night which he hadn't that's what he'd have dreamed of. So now he stood, handcuffed, fettered, surrounded by ten unmounted men of the 7th Washington Colony Cavalry, waiting for the off. His transport for the trip was just to his left, about the length of a football field away. He'd already drunk his fill of its exterior, the tracked lozenge, olive drab like the mens' uniforms, his transport until the border, when he'd be handed over to the dubious custody of whatever elite Annesland regiment had been charged with the duty. Probably the Eastern Virginian Marines, or the Carolina Fusiliers, he guessed, or maybe another cavalry regiment, possibly the Alabama Lancers. They were only waiting, he had been told, for the arrival of the ambassador and his entourage. Soon, the litter carrying the pompous windbag would be in sight, and the ambassador and selected members of his entourage - his aide, his body servant, his stenographer - would take their places in the padded, oversprung Tesla-powered coach, which already stood in place near the rear of the crocodile of vehicles. A squad of cavalry, standing by their horses, would provide an advance guard, followed by the supply vehicles lots of these, for an ambassador can't be expected to go short on the journey and an army marches on its stomach - good grief and auntie fanny, whoever coined that phrase had no idea of a soldier's anatomy! and then would come the ammunition truck, a second detachment of the 7th, his own vehicle, the converted tank, more horsemen, the ambassador's carriage, and then four tanks to bring up the rearguard. He'd taken careful notice of the order of march - knowing such details without having to search his memory might just give him the chance he needed. And, now, here was the litter coming in sight, toted by four stalwart men, their faces red with effort. Any second now, Galvie would catch a glimpse of the man who was taking him to his doom. And, just possibly, preventing the doom of countless others.