Woolgathering

The Colonel was doing what he did best— worrying. 'Mummy', his men called him, and cluck and fuss over them he did— much more obviously than he liked to think. Currently on his mind was the fact that while he served his punishments his superiors would be trying to usurp the tight hold he had on his regiment. They'd put his Lt. Colonel through hell.

  But that was why the Colonel hadn't involved him in the heroics to begin with. The Lt. Colonel was ruthless, used any means necessary to protect those he cared for, selfish bastard that he was.

  They were too much alike.

  "Colonel, you might want to take that off," advised a nervous Lieutenant, nodding at his dusty undershirt.

  "I wore an old one on purpose," said the dissimulated giant. "Sitting on my ass leading's making my gut soft. Don't want my men to endure the shame of a flabby commanding officer."

  "But Sir—."

  "I've been through this before," the Colonel spoke quietly, with a hint of a scowl. The thought of how lax the Lt. Colonel would be about drills had just occurred to him.

  "Right this way then, Sir."

  It was starting to go by fast, these sessions. He used to have a higher rank, once. But he couldn't seem to go long without dereliction of duty or covering one of his men's asses. He didn't mind. After a while the whip— Ah, hello old friend, he winced— didn't sting as bad, though this time they were going to send him and his lacerated back to penal labor, just to see if that would break him. His superiors were losing patience.

  The Colonel didn't feel bitter. This was justice; this was how it should be.

  Control was needed for order. Order was paramount. But another, very important part of the law was that it had punishments for crimes— it made allowances for a breach, recognized the freedom of choice and prepared accordingly. This, the fire raging over his back, it was just the price of liberty— one was not entitled to it, never could be. Liberty was synonymous with struggle. The day that no one suffered would be the day that man had fallen, the day that no one could make choices to pay for.

  The twelfth lash cracked like lightning over the tattered, bloody fabric of skin and cotton. Old scars opened. Blood pooled beneath the Colonel bowed before the law.

  A shiver coursed through the spines of his superiors as he grinned.

  IV.