"Sorry, mom."
"Sorry, mom."
"That's quite alright. It is a tense time after all,” she sighed. "Goodness...can hardly believe it...another war is to take place in just two weeks."
No one spoke for a minute, each content simply to listen to Peter Jarvis and his panel discuss the impending Great War.
"Anyway,” Lorena Tremblay said when she could stand the silence no longer. "Would anyone care for some more dessert?"
- 9 -
Anger. That’s what Jonathan felt as he read the article in the Ottawa Observer on the status of the investigation into the fatal poisoning of Alistair Tillman. It was stalled. Diplomatic issues. Political issues. He’d heard things in the corridors. Whispers. The Russians had definitely played a role, but to what extent was still indeterminable. Privately, interim Prime Minister Ronald Court was threatening to expel the Russian diplomat from the country. Though his British counterpart, Gordon Cromwell, had strongly advised him against this, citing the safety of his wife and Thomas Reeve and urging him to wait until the Great War was over.
Personally, Jonathan was fed up with politics. He'd found that it was a dirty, ugly business where your friends could be your worst enemies. Crossing the floor to join the Reform Party had taught him that much - and the fallout he’d experienced - both in the media and from his own family - was enough to make him never want to step inside a government building again. But it was for Alexandra and the memory of Alistair Tillman that he kept going.
“I’m not running next election,” he huffed as they jogged together along the Canal the following Saturday.
“No one’s asking you to.”
“Good. Because I’m not. I’m through with politics.”
Alexandra said nothing, but instead focused her attention on a gaggle of young geese huddled on the grass.
“I don’t know why I ever ran in the first place. I should have just went to university like everybody else. I’d be finishing up my second year right about now with just two years to go.”
“You can still go to school,” said Alexandra as she pulled the water bottle from the pouch around her waist and took a quick sip.
“I know…and I probably will,” Jonathan sighed. “It’s just…I’m so confused with everything that’s going on right now. I mean, Tillman. He’s dead. Gone. Forever. And he was alive and well three months ago. Could have lived to be a hundred.”
“We've gone over this a hundred times, Jon. And what if he would have died in a car accident a year later or something? You never know what can happen in life.”
“Well, it wasn’t his time. And he sue as hell didn't die in a car accident. He was murdered. And no one knows why.”
Alexandra slowed her jog to a walk, prompting Jonathan to do the same.
“Let’s try and figure it out,” she said, extending her leg onto a concrete planter so that she could stretch.
“Figure what out?”
“Why Alistair Tillman was murdered.”
Jonathan released a heavy sigh, before nodding and joining her in the stretch.
“First things first,” she said. “Who were his enemies?”
“That’s easy. Axelrod. The Liristanis. The Russians.”
“Okay…what did each have to gain with him out of the way?”
“Well, Axelrod…Tillman had always been a thorn in his side. As long as Tillman was at the head of the Union Party, moderate conservatives would vote Union. With Ronald Court at the helm now…who knows. He caters much more to the leftist faction within the Party - and he’s big on labour organizations - unlike Tillman. So with Tillman gone…the Reformers might win the next election and Axelrod could have been Prime Minister?”
Alexandra nodded as she leaned into her calf stretch. “Okay…and how about his connection to the Liristanis and the Russians?”
“Well…his wife is Malsma…so he's either Malsma himself or he sympathizes with their cause. That would put him on the side of Abu-Ishak and Liristan. As Prime Minister he would be able to increase trade and diplomatic ties with Liristan - maybe even granting terrorist elements Canadian citizenship so that they could come to Canada and attack the U.S. from Canadian soil?”
Alexandra gaped at him, a look of surprise on her face. “Whoa. Jon. That’s good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean, not good - but you may be on to something there.”
Feeling more confident now that they were starting to get somewhere, Jonathan's mood brightened.
"I say we add our theories to our report and hand them over to CSIS. Let them finish the job. We did our part."
Sighing, Jonathan bent and touched his toes, the glare of the sun on the hot pavement causing him to squint.
"You're right," he said slowly as he stood up a second later. "We did our part. Now it's their turn."
"And Alistair Tillman can rest in peace," Alexandra added, leaning on him as she rotated her ankle.
"And Alistair Tillman can rest in peace," Jonathan repeated, sending a silent prayer to the man.
Wherever you are.
Crazy Pete's sports bar. September 7, 2048.
Seated on what had to be the most uncomfortable bar stool he'd ever sat on, Jonathan held his breath along with the other patrons as everyone silently counted down with the flashing numbers on the TV screen.
Twenty three...twenty two...twenty one...twenty.
In just twenty seconds the Great War would commence. Low flying drones equipped with cameras would capture and broadcast the battle in its entirety. In real time. No editing.
As adults the world over - from Uruguay to Australia to Ireland - gathered around TV sets, their kids were sent outside to play - or sent to bed - depending on the time zone in which they lived. For the sights and sounds about to be witnessed were not intended for young ears and young eyes, and for the past week, television networks had issued glaring viewer advisory warnings for the Great War.
Seated beside Alexandra, her perfume tickling his nostrils, Jonathan felt her squeeze his hand. He returned the squeeze, but kept his eyes on the TV screen, not daring to look away lest he miss something.
To his left, he could hear Keegan crunching away absent-mindedly on bar nuts as he too waited for the battle to begin.
The timer reached zero and a final red and white disclaimer flashed across the screen.
We remind our viewers that what you are about to see will be extremely graphic and is intended for adult audiences only.
"Here we go," said the bartender as he leaned against the counter, his eyes glued to the screen.
"Let 'em have it, boys!" a grizzled, grey-beard roared, raising his glass in salute.
"Here, here."
In the next instant two talking heads appeared on screen. Peter Jarvis of CNB news and guest correspondent, Colonel Goodwin of the Canadian Forces.
"Good evening, Canada. We begin our coverage of the Great War with a minute of prayer for our Canadian men and women - and our Allied brothers and sisters in arms - who are about to go into battle. Not every man or woman is willing to lay down their lives for their country and for these brave souls to heed this call in this dark hour, is a selfless and heroic act. Let us remember this as we gather with our friends and family during this difficult time and may we be there for them when they return. And for those who do not return, may we be there for their friends and family. A minute of silence will commence...now."
Alexandra's hand was warm and electric in his and Jonathan held fast to it.
Thank you so much for Alexandra. She means so much to me. Mister Tillman, wherever you are, I hope you know that we did our best with the assignment you gave us. I think we got you the result you were hoping for.
After sending some positive energy to the Canadian army units, he opened his eyes and stared at the screen once again.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment we've all been waiting for - and the moment we've all been dreading - the Great War. I have here with me Colonel Goodwi
n of the Canadian Forces. Colonel Goodwin has been a member of the C.F. since two thousand twenty and while he has yet to participate in a battle of this nature, he has years of conventional battle experience. So, welcome, Colonel Goodwin."
"Thank you, Peter. I would say that it's good to be here, but I can't say that. This is a dark day for the Canadian Forces. I was opposed to Abu-Ishak's Bronze Age Accord from the very - "
His microphone cut out - evidently the producers disproved of the colonel's remarks - and Peter Jarvis had to recover quickly.
"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this Bronze Age battle is a unique moment in history. In fact, I don't think the world has seen warfare like this for over three milennia. We now take you live to the Southern Steppe of Morocco's portion of the Sahara Desert where both the Malsma army and the Allied army are holding prayer sessions. An interesting fact about this part of the world, there are only..."
"These bloody camel jockies," grey-beard said loudly, slamming his glass on the bar top. "Look at all this we're doing for them. They don't have the weaponry that we have so we have to drop everything and pick up swords and spears to placate them."
"Here, here."
"Wait a minute though," said Jonathan, several patrons turning to look at him. "What about the fact that tens of thousands of innocent civilians won't die? Or that cities won't be destroyed? Isn't it better to do things this way?"
There were several murmurs as those gathered around the bar thought about his remark.
"I can't say that I disagree," said one man, giving him an approving nod.
"I can," grey beard piped up, the twist of his lips and redness of his face indicating that he was steadily becoming more intoxicated. "These Malsmas think they can blow up buildings and we're not going to do anything about it? Well, I'll tell you what, buddy. You're wrong. These Malsmas should have their cities blown up. Their women and children should all die. That's the truth. That's what it is. You're just soft."
Jonathan wanted to answer, to tell the old man to can it, but Alexandra's warning stare stopped him.
"Just ignore him," she said quietly, squeezing his hand even more tightly than before.
"And now folks, the moment we've all been waiting for," said Peter Jarvis as the cameras zoomed in on the scarred, bearded, black-eyed Malsmas and the cold, steely, blue and brown-eyed Allies, "the Great War!"
There came the sound of a horn and then all hell broke loose. The two sides flew at each other, swords raised, maces swinging, and shields bouncing. Fierce stares. War cries. Shouts. And then they reached each other, like two giant waves meeting in the middle of the ocean, and there came the horrific sounds of wood against flesh and metal against bone. A "casualty counter" in the upper corner of the screen kept a tally of each side's dead and dying and the numbers began to climb.
Slicing. Hacking. Slashing. Guts being spilled. Heads rolling. Alexandra recoiled and Jonathan had to look away. Several of the patrons seated in the vicinity vomited, the sounds of their wretching adding to the grotesque sounds from the TV and creating an altogether unfavorable environment.
"I have to get out of here," said Jonathan, climbing down from his bar stool.
"I'll go with you," said Alexandra.
Keegan turned and looked at them. "Where you guys going? The show just started."
Holding his stomach, Jonathan shook his head as though his best friend's comment was not appreciated, and then he headed for the exit.
"Are you alright?" Alexandra asked as they stepped outside into the cool night air.
"Yeah...I'll be fine...I just feel a little nauseous," Jonathan answered as he took a seat on the curb. "I didn't think it would affect me that way...I've seen Swordsman and Barbarian and all those movies...but this was real...man."
Alexandra knelt down beside him and touched a hand to the back of his neck. "It was pretty bad. I didn't think it would be that bad."
Jonathan grinned as he shook his head and then threw it back, almost laughing. "I mean...can you believe it? We just saw that. Like...people's guts spilling onto the ground and their heads getting chopped off...if I don't laugh, I'll cry."
"I know what you mean."
"Forget what I said before about wishing I could go. Never. Ever."
Alexandra gave him an approving stare. "You see? I told you."
"I know. I guess...like I said, I didn't think it would be like that."
"You thought they'd die with smiles on their faces?"
"No. I guess...I don't know. I just thought it would be different."
"Well, maybe it was good you saw that then," she said, watching him closely. "I mean...if it keeps young people from signing up so eagerly for war. More importantly, if it keeps our politicians from signing young people up so eagerly for war. It's easy to not think about the consequences if you never see what actually happens."
"How do you know so much, anyway? You talk like you've been there."
"My dad fought in Cyprus."
"You never told me that."
"I didn't tell you because it makes me sad to talk about. I was six when he left - and when he came back - he wasn't the same. Not at all."
"That was in...thirty three?"
"Thirty three to thirty five."
"Wow. I'm sorry. I never knew."
"It's alright. He never talks about it. So we don't talk about it either."
"I want to meet your parents."
"You can. They're coming up for Thanksgiving."
"Alright."
With everyone inside watching the Great War as though Canada were playing for Olympic gold, Ottawa's streets and sidewalks were deserted and the pair decided to enjoy the peace and quiet. Occasionally they'd hear a cheer from inside the bar, but neither cared enough to go and see what was happening, and the young lovers spent the rest of the evening gazing at the stars and discussing their plans for the future.
- 10 -
The Canadian War Memorial. October 12, 2048.
"In honour of your service to your country and our allies, I have decided to commemorate the end of the Great War with a statue to pay tribute to you and your fallen comrades."
There was a round of applause and Ronald Court waited for the clapping to subside before continuing his speech.
"It is your sense of duty and selflessness," he said, fixing his eyes on the soldiers seated before him, "that has made this great nation what it is and that will protect and preserve this great nation into the future. This new statue is being designed by famed sculpturist Emmanuel Berkshire and will depict three soldiers side by side - men and women - running to face the enemy. In addition, both the United States of America and Great Britain are donating plaques to express their gratitude in your helping to free Thomas Reeve and Gloria Cromwell. And now, as your Interim Prime Minister and fellow Canadian, let me be the first to welcome you home and to thank you for your invaluable service."
The applause that followed was louder than before and Jonathan stood with the rest of the M.P.s seated around him in order to give the returning soldiers, seated in five long rows in front of the War Memorial, a standing ovation. As the bagpipes began to play, and the ceremony wound down, Jonathan hurried from his chair to meet Alexandra, watching from behind the fence.
"Ready to go?" he asked, wrapping an arm around her.
She nodded, slinging her camera over her shoulder. "Yes."
Leaving the crowd behind, the pair headed up Wellington Street, towards the federal courthouse. Arriving a quarter of an hour later, they found Wilfred Axelrod's sentencing hearing in the closing states.
"And so," the spectacled judge boomed, as the handful of spectators in the courtroom looked on with eager anticipation, "I sentence you, Wilfred Oliver Axelrod to ten years in prison for conspiring with the enemy and betraying the trust of your post as Official Leader of the Opposition. Bailiff! Take this man away!"
There were hisses from some of the men and women seated in the front row as the blue shirted bailiff came to escort the disgrac
ed, former politician from the prisoner's box. Jonathan surveyed the courtroom, searching for Axelrod's wife. He spotted her after several seconds, seated five rows ahead. Her purple headscarf was drawn tightly round her head. Her shoulders were slumped and she appeared to be weeping - though from his angle he couldn't be sure.
"Wait! Your Honour."
It was Axelrod speaking and Jonathan returned his attention to the portly, grey-haired man. "There is something I must say."
"Very well. You shall have two minutes to speak to the Court."
"Thank you. Your Honour - and everyone here - I owe you an apology. I betrayed your trust. I let you down. I let myself down."
He sighed deeply and stared at the ceiling.
"Two years ago I converted to Imsla and became a Malsma. My wife is from Liristan and she is Malsma. And I had not known God before her. I mean, as a boy I attended the Presbyterian church with my parents...but that religion did not resonate with me. It seemed hollow. Imsla inspired me to believe in God and to believe in something greater than myself. I found it deeply troubling that Alistair Tillman was so committed to aligning Canada with the other Western nations against Liristan. I am a Westerner - and I believe in Western values. But, at the end of the day, I could not stand to see them dictating the outcome of my wife's homeland. And so, with the help of the Russians, I conspired to...have an innocent man murdered."
Alexandra gaped aloud as these words tumbled out of Axelrod's mouth.
"Silence in the gallery please," the judge boomed, his voice echoing throughout the room.
"I had an innocent man murdered," Axelrod repeated, "for a cause that I believed in. Seeing how much I've hurt you all, however, I know that my actions were not righteous and I deserve the sentence that I have been given. May God bless you and I hope you can someday forgive me."
Hushed murmurings rippled through the audience as the bailiff calmly unlocked the prisoner's box and led Axelrod to the green metal door at the extreme right of the courtroom.
"I love you, habibi!" his wife screamed, collapsing against the edge of the bench and sobbing uncontrollably. "I won't forget you!"
Axelrod didn't turn around, didn't answer, and instead, simply stooped and passed through the doorway.
"Oh my God..." Alexandra said quietly once the bailiff had disappeared through the doorway and closed the door behind him.