tone even. “Come on out of there.”
There was a moment of silence,
then: “So…Norton is it? Come in, come in. You will not be harmed.”
Norton considered the situation.
He closed his eyes and saw his wife. He saw his father and his mother—pictured
the little house he and Maggie shared in the Sellwood district. He saw the
ruined bodies of the men who had fought for the rights to raise a family.
His hand went to the doorknob. It
was as though he were outside himself—watching himself enter the lion’s den.
He was not afraid.
Creen was very old. He looked
frail, his face a story of time and hardship. Still, aged or not, sharp eyes
peered out from beneath wild, gray eyebrows. He couldn’t discern their color,
but they were unwavering.
“Please. Sit down,” Creen said,
motioning to the chair before him.
Norton did, the muzzle of
Verlander’s sidearm fixed on the general’s chest.
“You have nothing to fear from
me, Bryan Norton. You can put that gun away. Or you can keep it out. It doesn’t
matter.”
“Do you have children?” Norton
asked. He was surprised by the strength in his voice.
Creen smiled. “I do. My daughter
is thirty-six years old. She works for the authority. My son is twenty-four. He
will face Labor in four months’ time.”
“Why? Why would you condone
this…this barbaric exercise?”
Creen put his palms up, as if to
say what are my choices? “This is how it’s always been, Bryan. How it’s
always gone.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t
change it, Creen! We’re talking about your son’s right to have his own family.
Don’t you see the flaws inherent in this…this torture ?”
“My son is strong. He will win
his family. Just like you, Bryan Norton. You have navigated the contest. You
have survived Labor, and your prize is somewhat grander. Do you mind if I show
you something?”
Norton nodded and the general
touched a button on the arm of his chair. A bank of video monitors blinked on
and Norton’s mouth fell open at the images they revealed.
“200,000 of them. Maybe more. The
Authority has called in the National Guard. I don’t think it’ll make much of a
difference, though. That,” he said, pointing a finger at the monitors, “is the
beginning of the end of the current way of doing things.”
Norton couldn’t reconcile what he
was seeing. Throngs of civilians marched up and down Portland’s streets. There
were, indeed, many thousands of them, pressed into the parks and streets of a
burning city. The monitors were silent, but a quality of anger seemed to bleed
from the images there.
“If you wanted a revolution…”
General Creen whispered, his back turned as he watched the monitors, “you got
it.”
“And you, General? What will
happen to you?”
The old man turned and offered a
wry smile. “I’ll die. It won’t be long now.” He rummaged in his pocket, pulled
out a canister and threw it to Bryan. Cyanide—a centuries-old manner of
suicide.
“Why did you do that?”
“I’m a symbol of the old ways. I
understand that. The tides have been turning for decades, but what you did
tonight sped things up. There’s no life for me on the other side of what
happened here, Bryan. No place for me in the new world.”
“And your crimes, General? What
of the things you did in your life?”
He sucked in a draught of air and
let it go in a sigh. “Who knows? I did what was asked of me. Did I believe in
it? Sometimes. Early on, mostly.”
“Would you change it? If you
could, would you go back and change it?”
Creen eyed him. “It doesn’t
matter, son. Fact is, I can’t change it. We live with our actions. It’s
what we…” he grimaced, “what we do.”
Norton nodded. He stood and
turned his back on the old man and left without sparing him another glance.
When he returned to his friends
in the hallway, one was dead. The other barely breathed.
Bryan choked back a sob, threw
Verlander’s weapon away and sprinted for the stairwell and the
There was a moment of silence,
then: “So…Norton is it? Come in, come in. You will not be harmed.”
Norton considered the situation.
He closed his eyes and saw his wife. He saw his father and his mother—pictured
the little house he and Maggie shared in the Sellwood district. He saw the
ruined bodies of the men who had fought for the rights to raise a family.
His hand went to the doorknob. It
was as though he were outside himself—watching himself enter the lion’s den.
He was not afraid.
Creen was very old. He looked
frail, his face a story of time and hardship. Still, aged or not, sharp eyes
peered out from beneath wild, gray eyebrows. He couldn’t discern their color,
but they were unwavering.
“Please. Sit down,” Creen said,
motioning to the chair before him.
Norton did, the muzzle of
Verlander’s sidearm fixed on the general’s chest.
“You have nothing to fear from
me, Bryan Norton. You can put that gun away. Or you can keep it out. It doesn’t
matter.”
“Do you have children?” Norton
asked. He was surprised by the strength in his voice.
Creen smiled. “I do. My daughter
is thirty-six years old. She works for the authority. My son is twenty-four. He
will face Labor in four months’ time.”
“Why? Why would you condone
this…this barbaric exercise?”
Creen put his palms up, as if to
say what are my choices? “This is how it’s always been, Bryan. How it’s
always gone.”
“That doesn’t mean we can’t
change it, Creen! We’re talking about your son’s right to have his own family.
Don’t you see the flaws inherent in this…this torture ?”
“My son is strong. He will win
his family. Just like you, Bryan Norton. You have navigated the contest. You
have survived Labor, and your prize is somewhat grander. Do you mind if I show
you something?”
Norton nodded and the general
touched a button on the arm of his chair. A bank of video monitors blinked on
and Norton’s mouth fell open at the images they revealed.
“200,000 of them. Maybe more. The
Authority has called in the National Guard. I don’t think it’ll make much of a
difference, though. That,” he said, pointing a finger at the monitors, “is the
beginning of the end of the current way of doing things.”
Norton couldn’t reconcile what he
was seeing. Throngs of civilians marched up and down Portland’s streets. There
were, indeed, many thousands of them, pressed into the parks and streets of a
burning city. The monitors were silent, but a quality of anger seemed to bleed
from the images there.
“If you wanted a revolution…”
General Creen whispered, his back turned as he watched the monitors, “you got
it.”
“And you, General? What will
happen to you?”
The old man turned and offered a
wry smile. “I’ll die. It won’t be long now.” He rummaged in his pocket, pulled
out a canister and threw it to Bryan. Cyanide—a centuries-old manner of
suicide.
“Why did you do that?”
“I’m a symbol of the old ways. I
understand that. The tides have been turning for decades, but what you did
tonight sped things up. There’s no life for me on the other side of what
happened here, Bryan. No place for me in the new world.”
“And your crimes, General? What
of the things you did in your life?”
He sucked in a draught of air and
let it go in a sigh. “Who knows? I did what was asked of me. Did I believe in
it? Sometimes. Early on, mostly.”
“Would you change it? If you
could, would you go back and change it?”
Creen eyed him. “It doesn’t
matter, son. Fact is, I can’t change it. We live with our actions. It’s
what we…” he grimaced, “what we do.”
Norton nodded. He stood and
turned his back on the old man and left without sparing him another glance.
When he returned to his friends
in the hallway, one was dead. The other barely breathed.
Bryan choked back a sob, threw
Verlander’s weapon away and sprinted for the stairwell and the
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