Allanea
09-12-2005, 17:42
An unknown location inside Allanean Alabama
It is night. The place is rather spartan - a suburban house’s garage rather than some secret service location. Then again, this is not an operation of the CIA. Rather, it’s a private operation.
The garage is empty of cars – the owner has not bought it for the purpose of putting a car in it. Rather, he uses it for meetings just like this one.
In the middle of the garage stands a table, covered, like with a table cloth, with a flag. Today, despite tradition, it’s not the flag of the Confederacy. Rather – for some symbolic reason – the Knootian tricolor has been chosen. One the flag, an assault rifle lies, as well as a knife.
The owner of the house stands next to it. He looks at the visitors – maybe ten, fifteen people, different ages and races, different origins in society. He can see two truck drivers, a cattle rancher, five schoolboys, a priest and a married couple of retirees. Their faces are uncovered. This is a sign of trust – if any one is interrogated, he will be able to give out the entire group. This is how the owner likes it. He picks out a man in the crowd. A software engineer working for Cerambus International. He speaks.
Come here, Martin.
The programmer walks forward, certain of himself.
Martin, tonight I will give you a dangerous mission. It is likely that you will perish carrying it out. I think that it is necessary, now, that you remember your Oath. I would like you to repeat it, to all of the people here.
Martin puts his hand forward, laying it on the assault rifle. He speaks.
It has been known for centuries, as a truth known to every man, that property is a basic right. Where the right to property perishes, all freedom will soon follow – if it hasn’t followed already. As I dedicate myself to the defense of life and liberty, so will I do my best at any time to defend the sacred right to property – wherever, whenever it will fall in peril, just as our Founder, William Ashtonbury, did.
Before God, I, Martin Cozzano, swear this creed.
I will not falter.
I will not fail.
I will not stop.
So be it, untill all enemies of the Sacred Right perish, and Freedom alone remain – just as Marcus Rumbiak, is dead – and William Ashtonbury lives on.
The supporters replied with screams of support:
Rumbiak is dead! Ashtonbury lives!
Rumbiak is dead! Ashtonbury lives!
Rumbiak is dead! Ashtonbury lives!
* * * * * *
Fifteen days later, Marin Cozzano was on his way to Tanah Burung. He had to change planes several times, but he didn’t care. The Brigade was paying for it, after all.
He did not believe that the tools of his mission would be discovered in flight – the two ceramical throwing knifes hidden in his socks were designed to pass freely through metal detection, and the derringer pistol he had as backup was hidden inside his laptop – and the only way to detect it was to take the computer apart. No, he was not worried.
Rumbiak, after all was dead.
Ashtonbury lived on.
It is night. The place is rather spartan - a suburban house’s garage rather than some secret service location. Then again, this is not an operation of the CIA. Rather, it’s a private operation.
The garage is empty of cars – the owner has not bought it for the purpose of putting a car in it. Rather, he uses it for meetings just like this one.
In the middle of the garage stands a table, covered, like with a table cloth, with a flag. Today, despite tradition, it’s not the flag of the Confederacy. Rather – for some symbolic reason – the Knootian tricolor has been chosen. One the flag, an assault rifle lies, as well as a knife.
The owner of the house stands next to it. He looks at the visitors – maybe ten, fifteen people, different ages and races, different origins in society. He can see two truck drivers, a cattle rancher, five schoolboys, a priest and a married couple of retirees. Their faces are uncovered. This is a sign of trust – if any one is interrogated, he will be able to give out the entire group. This is how the owner likes it. He picks out a man in the crowd. A software engineer working for Cerambus International. He speaks.
Come here, Martin.
The programmer walks forward, certain of himself.
Martin, tonight I will give you a dangerous mission. It is likely that you will perish carrying it out. I think that it is necessary, now, that you remember your Oath. I would like you to repeat it, to all of the people here.
Martin puts his hand forward, laying it on the assault rifle. He speaks.
It has been known for centuries, as a truth known to every man, that property is a basic right. Where the right to property perishes, all freedom will soon follow – if it hasn’t followed already. As I dedicate myself to the defense of life and liberty, so will I do my best at any time to defend the sacred right to property – wherever, whenever it will fall in peril, just as our Founder, William Ashtonbury, did.
Before God, I, Martin Cozzano, swear this creed.
I will not falter.
I will not fail.
I will not stop.
So be it, untill all enemies of the Sacred Right perish, and Freedom alone remain – just as Marcus Rumbiak, is dead – and William Ashtonbury lives on.
The supporters replied with screams of support:
Rumbiak is dead! Ashtonbury lives!
Rumbiak is dead! Ashtonbury lives!
Rumbiak is dead! Ashtonbury lives!
* * * * * *
Fifteen days later, Marin Cozzano was on his way to Tanah Burung. He had to change planes several times, but he didn’t care. The Brigade was paying for it, after all.
He did not believe that the tools of his mission would be discovered in flight – the two ceramical throwing knifes hidden in his socks were designed to pass freely through metal detection, and the derringer pistol he had as backup was hidden inside his laptop – and the only way to detect it was to take the computer apart. No, he was not worried.
Rumbiak, after all was dead.
Ashtonbury lived on.