A Story I Started and Abandoned back in 2008

The end of the war began in a convenience store near 5th and Center.

Had the stranger come the day before he would have found the store closed, as it often was in those days, the iron bars on the window zealously guarding the meager stock inside. But the stranger came that day, and so he found a sun-faded 'open' sign in the window and the owner seated behind the counter just as he had spent many days before the troubles.

Erzo, the shopkeeper, disliked him instantly.

It was not his manner, which was respectful enough (although the shopkeeper imagined he saw a hint of a smirk while examining a can of food off the shelf - let him try to find better nowadays. Let him try!).

Erzo's reaction was instinctual, with no basis in fact or logic. If forced to justify his reaction he would have shifted blame to the stranger's hair, cut long in the back and combed to the right; or his suit, ten years out of style before the war's first shot was fired but even so clean and pressed without a tear or patch to be seen.

The idea of a 'draft dodger' was antiquated - everyone had long ago been pressed into service, favorite son or not - but the sight of someone groomed and manicured was enough to bring back bitter memories of the beast.

"Good morning," the stranger said when he approached the register. "How are you today?"

Erzo managed a curt reply and began to add the purchase.

"You have son's in the service?" the stranger asked, gesturing with his head to a gold star flag on the wall. The shopkeeper paused, but in the end managed to keep his voice civil.

"Had two sons and a daughter. Lost one boy at Simeile, another at Cantyoi. Haven't heard from the daughter in awhile. By now they might all be gone," he said.

"I'm sorry to hear that," the stranger said, and the emotion on his face matched the words.

"I don't need no pity." the shopkeeper thought. But what he said was "Fourteen, and three ration tickets. Machine ain’t worked since they knocked out the power last week. Paper only.”".

"Of course," the stranger said, and pulled out a wallet. It creaked when opened and the scent of fresh leather wafted through the air. He took out several bills and handed them across the counter.

A look of confusion crossed the shopkeep's face for a moment, then anger.

"What the hell are you trying to pull? You walk in here with that fancy suit and then you try to steal my goods with this crap? If I was younger I’d do something more than just call the police," he said, reaching for a phone.

The stranger reacted calmly (and in hindsight Erzo would recall a hint of amusement in his eyes).

"Sir, you have it all wrong. I simply misplaced some of my ration bills," he said, pulling out new versions and laying them on the counter "It's a simple misunderstanding, nothing more. Please, keep the change as my apology for upsetting you.”

The shopkeeper glanced at the bills and quickly chocked down his response. The amount on the counter was more than enough to pay for the food – in fact, given what remained on his shelf, it was nearly enough to buy out his inventory.

The stranger, having correctly gauged the greed on Erzo’s face, smiled.

“I will of course need those other bills back,” he said, holding out his hand.

Reluctantly, Erzo handed them over. The stranger picked up his bag, issued a cheerful goodbye and walked out the door. Erzo waited until he rounded the corner before reaching for the phone.

2.

When the stranger was finally led to an interogation room he could not have told you how much time had passed since his arrest, a fact that struck him as both ironic and troubling. More than a day certainly, and less than a week. The uncertainy was galling - there was much to be accomplished, and little time to do so.

The room itself was nondescript. Dark grey walls made darker still by years of dust and dirt, a simple metal table in the center of the room, two chairs on either side. There was a camera mounted near the ceiling , but he was confident that it was a ruse and that the real deal was planted somewhere out of sight. There were no windows in the room and it smelled strongly of commerical disenfectant.

The door opened and a middle aged man entered. He stood a few inches shy of six feet tall, with a round ruddy face and deeply receding hairline. He wore the olive uniform of an Army officer and carried a single manilla folder under his arm. Though the uniform appeared relatively new he wore it haphazardly, in a manner that would have driven a drill instructor into a fit of rage. He took a seat before saying a word.

" I'm Major Chesham, currently assigned to domestic monetary investigations, a division of Army intelligence that now classifies you as a 'person of interest'. You're aware of the charges against you Mr. Smith?" he said.

"Barlow. My name is Kenneth Barlow."

"Ah, thank you for that seque. 'Smith' is the name we assign to all unidentified persons, of which you are one," he said. "No ID card. No fingerprints or DNA on file. No record of a birth matching your name and age. Not my current professional area of interest, but would you care to explain that?"

Smith shrugged. "Maybe the records were destroyed in the bombing."

Chesam smiled. "War is a civilized activity Mr. Smith. While we bomb and burn each others population with impunity, there's an unspoken rule that neither side impair the workings of the powers that be. I assure you our records are intact. Care to change your story?"

Smith shrugged, and in response Chesmam sighed heavily.

"Mr. Smith let me be honest with you. You were caught in possession of eighteen hundred credits of non-legal tender," as he said this he pulled the now-laminated bills from the folder and set them in front of him. "In addition you used these bills to purchase items in a minimum of four businesses in a one mile radius."

Smith gave a shrug of acknowledgement.

"And notice how I said 'non-legal tender' not 'counterfeit'. These are legitimate bills of credit, issued by the government, printed in our treasury, distributed by the military." Chesham said. He leaned forward and dropped any hint of friendliness from his voice.

"The only thing is Mr. Smith is that these bills aren't set to be distributed until next week. As a matter of fact they weren't printed until the day of your shopping trip and alledgedly, allegedly Mr. Smith, even their design was randomly chosen by computer that very morning."

"So what I think  is that you have a friend in very important places, a greedy friend who put a little too much faith in your discrection. I'd like the name of that friend Mr. Smith. I'd like that name very much."

Smith sat silent. After a moment Chesham put the bills back into the folder and put it to the side. When he spoke, he did so with resignation in his voice.

"Mr. Smith six years ago if we'd had this conversation I'd have labeled you a traitor and beaten you to a pulp. Four years ago I'd have called you a scoundrel who was endangering the war effort and thrown you in jail. Two years ago, Mr. Smith, I'd have said you were costing us valuable time and resources and sent you off to join the infantry."

"Now, I don't care. I'm here because it is my job and because it's what I do. But I couldn't care less about what becomes of you, good or bad. Give me the name of your supplier and I promise here you walk out of here. You don't even have to explain away your identity. Just a name Mr. Smith. That's all I'm looking for. A name."

Smith seemed to consider the offer, then leaned forward.

"I purchased them from a man I know as Alex. He runs an antique store on the 4300 block of Central."

Chesham looked confused. "There's no antique store on that block."

Smith broke into a wide, toothy grin. "There will be 200 years from now"

Chesham's face turned red. "You think this is funny? You think this is a joke? Tell me how funny it is when the interogators are breaking your knees for the second time in a year. Tell me a joke then." He got up to leave and headed for the door."Enjoy your time in custody Mr. Smith."

“July 1st,” Smith yelled out as the door opened.. “On July 1st you’ll invade Sontau with thirty thousand men. It will be a disaster, a massacre. But a few thousand of your men will escape because a lietuanent named Dupreu organizes a last line of defense to hold off the enemy and buy time,” Chesham was already halfway out the door, “He’ll die with a bullet in the forehead but he’ll die a hero. Streets will be named after him. July 1st!”

The door slammed shut.

* ***

Chesham was wrong. They did not break his knee. Instead his interrogators broke each of the fingers on his left hand, a substituiton Smith found satisfactory under the circumstances. The hand was almost healed by the time the Major returned.

“Do you know why I’m here?” Cheham asked.

Smith smiled. “Presumably because it is now July. It would be nice to have a calendar you know. Downright barbaric to deny a man such a simple request.”

The Major's words came with difficulty. “The Sontau operation was compromised from the begining. My mother told me after it hit the news that she'd heard about it from someone in church months ago. The general staff knew it was compromised and  went ahead anyway, and 28,000 men are now dead or captured. It was idiotic to proceed. Your knowledge of the operation only proves that fact."

He paused, searching for the right words.

"But Lietuant Dupreau . . he died there, as you said. But he bought us enough time to evacuate the few men that were left. I've rolled it around in my head, and there's no way you could have known about him. No way to have predicted his actions."

Smith shrugged. "And?"

"And?," Chesham said. "And? I need you to explain how you knew. I need to know how you knew something that no one on this Earth could possibly know."

Smith looked annoyed. "I read about it in a history book two centuries from now. Is that the answer you were looking for?"

"Mr. Smith, I really don't have time for games," Chesham began before Smith interrupted.

"What's the date?"

"The date?"

"A simple question. What's the date?"

"July 7th," Chesham replied.

Smith's reacted with disgust. "You kept me in here for a week after the fact?,"  he said, shaking his head.

"Listen to me. In two days time there will be a bombing run against this city. One of your fighters will be cut in two but on the way down clip the wings of a bomber. That bomber will then veer off course and crash into St. Mark's Basillica. General Heatchliff, along with the mayor and the bishop will be on an inspection tour of the city and regretably they take shelter inside the building. None of them survive, and an officer from your own Intelligence division will take over as Commander of the Army. You know of Jeremy Rule?"

Chesham nodded warily.

"Tell him congratualtions on the promotion. And I would appreciate if you don't leave me to stew in here any longer than necessary. Come see me on the 10th, or don't come at all."

"And Major Chesham? When you visit me next, make sure you bring a company checkbook. You'll be needing it."

* * * *