A four-knot breeze was blowing in from the ocean as Marcus Ciro strolled down the center of the east bridge across the narrow channel that separated the island from the mainland. He heard the swish of water as it washed around the bridge supports, felt the heat of the star beating down on his head, felt his own blood rushing through his veins. He honestly wasn’t scared, but his tension was high. This was a critical moment, not only for Ciro and his career as dominus, but also Santu Región and the planet as a whole. Whatever transpired in the next half hour could change the course of Eutopia history.
The table had already been placed in the center of the bridge. Two chairs faced each other, one on each side of the table, and as Ciro approached, he saw the rebel leader walking toward him. Like Ciro, he was alone and appeared to be unarmed.
Behind the rebel leader, Ciro saw five armed men standing at the far end of the bridge. Kneeling before them were about twenty civilians, men and women, all chained together. The armed men stood behind them, weapons ready. A clear threat if Ciro didn’t keep up his end of the bargain.
Behind Ciro, Max and Pvt. Cato stood beside the command car, which was parked near the bridge. Fifty cubits upstream, a heavy armored vehicle sat on the riverbank, its heavy gun aimed at the sky. The four-man crew were lined up on the ground beside the vehicle. Lgt. Grge stood beside them, gazing at the bridge through electro-lenses.
They reached the table at about the same time. And stopped. Ciro sized up his opponent, and his opponent did the same. The rebel was taller, easily one 1.6 cubits, while Ciro was barely 1.5. The other man was also darker complected with tight, curly black hair that gleamed in the starlight. He was wearing faded but clean military camo and a pistol belt which carried no pistol. He was a good-looking man with crinkles at the corners of his eyes, maybe forty years old.
They stared at one another for thirty seconds.
“Dominus Ciro?” the rebel leader asked.
“That’s right. I’m afraid no one ever told me your name.”
“That’s because no one knows my name.” The rebel offered a faint smile. “For today, you can call me Bama.”
“Just Bama?”
“Are you familiar with the local language?”
“No.”
“It’s simply a word that means ‘leader’.”
“Fair enough. May I ask why you have hostages?” Ciro pointed toward the chained civilians.
“Treachery begets treachery. We have little reason to trust the Empire. That is merely insurance.”
“You are prepared to murder civilians?”
“Only if your side opens fire.” Bama nodded toward the armored car. “I see you brought your own insurance.”
Ciro stared at him for a moment, then indicated the table and chairs.
“Shall we begin?”
“Of course. The day is half over.”
Bama pulled out a chair and sat down. Ciro pulled out his own chair, then began shedding his camo jacket, which he folded and placed on the ground. Bama’s eyes widened perceptibly.
“What the flame is that?” He was staring at Ciro’s shirt.
The shirt was white, short-sleeved. In the center of the chest were three concentric circles, one inside the other, with a sold disk in the center. All in red.
“That looks like a target!” Bama said.
“It is.” Ciro sat down. “If you decide to turn your snipers loose on me, I don’t want them to miss. Better a clean death than a crippling wound.”
Bama stared at him another two seconds, then burst out laughing. He wiped his eyes.
“Dominus Ciro, I never thought I would say this to any Empire official, but you have a sense of humor. I respect that.”
Ciro grinned.
“I understand you have some complaints about Empire rule. I am here to listen, so state your case.”
Born Novelist 