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Author Topic: The Doctor and the President (1970)  (Read 578 times)

Offline Myroria

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The Doctor and the President (1970)
« on: October 03, 2014, 03:37:29 PM »
1965

In the heat of a Thanelen summer, the seventh-floor apartment, crammed well past capacity with warm bodies, was almost unbearable. Three electric fans were running but this seemed to just blow the humid air around, making the whole room even more stifling.

"We'll wrap this up soon, now, don't worry," said a tall dark man in a darker tee shirt. "Bernadette would just like to say a few words."

The man stepped out of the way and let a woman approach the clearing in the center of the crowd. Standing about five feet six, she had dark, short hair and eyes the color of Ozian coffee. Her skin was light - light enough to suggest some myror blood in her. Here though, it mattered much less than it did outside.

"It's been six months now since my induction into the PNA," she began softly, "and already I feel at home here. I think we can do some real good driving the myror from our homeland! Most of all, though, I'm optimistic for the future." There were some scattered, somewhat listless "hear, hear!"s from the audience. Bernadette wasn't sure if it was because of the heat or her speech, but opened her mouth to continue anyway. She was interrupted, though, by three loud raps at the door.

The room fell silent in anxiousness. "Dirty" Claude, a six foot three man covered in muscles, walked to the door as three more knocks came from it. Claude stood by the door for a moment.

"Thanelen Prefecture! Open the door!"

The room fell into pandemonium. Bernadette was nearly trampled as the score of people ran for the fire exit. The prefecture apparently heard the commotion, as the front door was soon thrown open and six men entered, guns drawn. Bernadette put her hands above her head and fell to her knees.



1964

"Hlerith left us with a real mess to clean up;" sighed a Myrorian woman sitting at a small desk, closing a manila folder. From another room, plates could be heard clattering and a stove sizzling.

"What happened this time?" Bernadette asked in accented Inglish. She sat across from the woman and compared to her she looked full-blooded Pelagian.

"Can you close that door?" the Myrorian asked. Bernadette stood up, looked briefly into the kitchen, and shut the door. "Thank you. Client hired Hlerith & Co. to off Aves Vrotrith. They botched the job, of course, and he escaped to Funkadelia."

"Funkadelia?"

"They offered him asylum. He's living in Biafra, working for the Interior Minister."

"Okay... " Bernadette said, crossing her legs. "So what is this? In-and-out job?"

"Not exactly," the Myrorian said, leaning forward. "The Funkadelians have a security apparatus second maybe only to the Ozians. Or the Ilium Mob. Listen... " she said, lowering her voice. "I wouldn't have picked you if you weren't our best."

Bernadette looked at her hands, resting in her lap. Her boss was about to ask a big favor. "Alright," Bernadette said. "You honor me." she continued somewhat begrudgingly. Her friends would mock her for "speaking myror" if they heard her now.

"You'd be a Pelagian nationalist escaping Myroria. Make connections, get in good with the Funkadelian bureaucracy, and get at Vrotrith. Kill him and get home. Our client's pockets are deep. It'd be a long assignment, but we'd take care of you financially the whole time."

Bernadette kept her eyes on her hands.

"How long?"

"A year, maybe a year and a half in Funkadelia. But... "

"But?" Bernadette asked, making eye contact with her employer.

"They'd investigate you as soon as you arrive. You can't just look like a nationalist. You have to be a nationalist. And that means spending time in jail."

"Jail?!" Bernadette said, eyes widening. "Nuh-uh."

"We'd take care of you the whole time. Your salary plus hazard pay. We can get you in by June."

"That's seven months from now... " Bernadette grunted. She sighed and looked at her hands again. "And how long would I be in?"



1970

Bernadette heaved a heavy case onto the check counter.

"Do you have a ticket, sera?" the ticket saleswoman asked.

"Uh, no," Bernadette replied. "I'd like a ticket for your next available flight to Biafra."

"Biafra!" the ticket clerk exclaimed.

"Yes. Biafra, Funkadelia."
"I assure you -- I will be quite content to be a mere mortal again, dedicated to my own amusements."