Also, the brawny arms and torso of the poster figure bear little resemble to me in my still emaciated state. The Propaganda Ministry has me on a special diet, however, so as to fatten me up as quickly as possible – like a lamb for the slaughter. I have no doubt that, if I don’t play my role perfectly, I will soon join the ranks of the honored dead. An unfortunate ‘training accident’ would be the most likely story.
Ket is still out on assignment, but her letters arrive frequently. I’ve made my displeasure at her exile known to the Propaganda Ministry representatives. Hopefully, this will help free her from the tyranny of her boss and get her career moving again. I owe her a lot. I often ponder how things would have turned out if I’d been able to make the goodwill tour she arranged.
***
The day of the Homecoming Celebration arrives. At my suggestion, Bekar shares a place of honor with me atop the magnificent review stand with its bunting of national flags and Party banners. Black is the dominant color wrapping around us, like crepe on a funeral bier.
The Propaganda Ministry boys liked the idea of including Bekar. As Stilikan’s wingman, he has the credibility to help build the legend of the ‘Golden Brothers’ aviation heroes.
Playing the game properly has brought me surprising power. Without consulting Bekar, I’ve arranged for a team of top surgeons and therapists to work on him after the rally. He won’t leave the capital city until his leg is fully repaired. If the services of his hometown doctor are required, then that man will be transported here as well.
Maybe Bekar will consider this to be high-handed of me, but I owe him a great debt on behalf of Stilikan, and I want it paid as soon as possible.
We stand together on the vast platform along with top Party officials and military brass. Field Marshall Angrift is notably absent. He “died heroically” during an inspection tour at the front. I wonder if that is the real story.
Spring breezes play about us promising renewed life for our nation if we are able to reach out and grasp it. I am dismayed, though not really surprised, to behold the silver-haired Party man we encountered at the restaurant the night before I left. I somehow knew that I’d see him again. We exchange cool nods of recognition.
The Magleiter will not be joining us today. The official word is that he’s far off at the cease fire line supervising our “impregnable defenses.” I think he simply doesn’t want to be here. This event does not commemorate the great victory he promised. He’s trying to distance himself from the debacle – let the lower level Party hacks smooth things over with the people.
Bekar and I exchange some private words after the National Military Band has finished its serenade of the review stand and marched off. This is the first time we’ve had a chance to talk since he arrived in the capital.
“They told me about the little ‘operation’ you arranged for me,” Bekar says.
“I hope you’re not too put out,” I say.
“A little,” Bekar says. “Gyn couldn’t be happier, though. She said I’d find no end of excuses to avoid surgery if left to myself.”
“Is she here now?”
Bekar shakes his head. “Not yet. She’ll come when they’re ready to put me under the knife. She’s very anxious to see you, Dye.”
“I’m anxious, too.”
I would have loved to see her today, but I am also relieved that she is not here. She might misinterpret my actions as being less than honorable.
Below us, the procession resumes. Following in the band’s wake comes a long column of “returned heroes” marching with great dignity, acknowledging the onlooker’s cheers. They wear fresh uniforms, but these do not disguise their gaunt appearance. The crowd is joyous, yet subdued in its welcome.
I join the cheers and applause, mindful, as is the crowd below me, that each returned hero represents many others who will never come back.
An army unit appears next, rumbling by in wheeled APC’s like the ones used by the Death Storm commandos. The unit must have been brought here from the ceasefire line and will be rushed back as soon as the parade is over.
Then more returned heroes march past, more regular units and military bands. Senior officers in splendid uniforms accompany the formations.
How many of these senior officers are incompetent Party hacks? I recall how ordinary soldiers gunned down such charlatans during the disaster at the bridge. It would be unreasonable to expect them to do such things again, however – unless they have a leader.
I make an extraordinarily dangerous comment to Bekar. He can be trusted, though, and no Party hack is within earshot.
“How would all these people react if they knew what’s really going on?” I say.
Bekar frowns, conveying the message that I should watch my words.
“Don’t be an idiot, Dytran,” he says. “People don’t want to be enlightened.”
The procession ends, and the speeches begin. They are all variations of the same bombastic rubbish: We owe everything to the Magleiter who has seen us through these perilous times to national salvation; our future victory is certain; all treachery against the Fatherland will be repaid many times over – and blah blah blah!
Finally, the Party big shots have all shouted themselves hoarse, and it’s my turn to speak as a “representative of the Fatherland’s heroic youth.” I take my spot at the microphones and strike a suitable pose for the News Service cameras which are grinding off to the side. I look out over the crowd. They have gotten restless from all the drivel they have been forced to listen to.
“Please join me in a moment of silence for all of those who cannot be with us here today.”
My voice booms over the loudspeakers, like an admonition from on high.
“Let us remember those who are closest to our hearts, along with all the rest of our fallen heroes.”
Absolute quiet ensues as thousands of heads bow in reverence. I feel an almost mystical bond with my suffering countrymen, with our betrayed and defeated nation. I think of Stilikan, Bel, and my dear comrades in the Raptor Aces. It is a truly sacred moment. I want to end it with a call to action:
“Arise and fight back!” I want to shout. “Our ‘Great Leader’ is a death god, and we are his sacrifices!”
But that would be suicidal. Instead, I launch into my prepared speech which differs little from the earlier ones. It’s all lies. My camouflage feathers remain firmly in place.DAS ROAD
A road novel with fascinating turns through exotic Asia, workaday America, and Iran caught up in revolution. Travel realms where anything is possible, wonderful, or horrible. And always on the road ahead, the mythical figure of Jon Glass who haunts the entire journey. A story imbued with meaning just below the level of articulating. A siren call to your wanderlust.
Travel / Mystery / Adventure
Career Moves for Burnt Out Personifications
Santa, the Grim Reaper, and others scramble to find new careers and identities. Outrageous political and social satire. “A smorgasbord of paranoid ramblings ideally suited to today's sensibilities.”
Humor / Political & Social Satire
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