By Opposing, End Them

Chapter III

     The police officer found me sitting perfectly still in front of the security robot. He was a tall, thin man with a very angular face. He dismissed the robot and beckoned for me to follow him. I got up and followed him out of the backstage and out of the auditorium. On a knoll just outside, there was a sleek, swept-wing aircraft marked with the word "Police". The officer climbed into the cockpit, motioning for me to join him.

     "What, aren't you going to read me my Miranda rights first?" I said to him.

     He looked genuinely confused. "Your what?"

     "My Miranda rights. 'You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law...' No?"

     He shook his head. "Get in the jet before I blast your head off," he said curtly. I shrugged and got in.

     The officer manipulated a few controls, and before I knew it we were airborne. The aircraft flew without a sound, smoothly cutting through the night sky. I looked at the digital clock in the cockpit. It was approaching ten-o'-clock. I settled back in my seat and tried my best to enjoy the ride. I consoled myself in the fact that the officer was taking me to civilization, or some semblance of it. The two of us rode in silence, only broken by the occasional bulletins on the blotter.

     About an hour later we appeared to be approaching a city. It wasn't very big, nor were there very tall buildings, but it was lit brightly. The officer maneuvered his jet towards the south side of the city, and a few minutes later we were descending on what I assumed to be the police station. We touched down softly on a runway just outside. The canopy opened and we both got out. The officer escorted me into the station and to the commissioner's desk. The commissioner, a stout, ruddy man with a broad mustache and mousy hair, was filling in forms. Two flags flanked his desk, one for the police chapter. The other I could not identify. It was a plain, ice blue flag with a black five-pointed star in the center.

     A portrait hung behind his desk. It showed a young man with curly dark hair cascading down to his shoulders, his face sharp and pale. He smiled coldly and his piercing blue eyes showed no mercy.

     "So, you got our little vagrant?" he asked without looking up. I was startled back into reality.

     "Yes, sir," said the officer. The commissioner looked up from his paperwork and gazed at me.

     "Name?" he asked, his pen at the ready.

     "Flint. Jack Flint," I replied. He dutifully filled out the appropriate box.

     "Age?"

     "Thirty-seven."

     "Address?" I gave it to him. He began to fill it out, but he stopped and looked at me curiously.

     "I'm sorry, what city did you say?"

     "Chicago."

     He looked at me strangely. "Where did you get that coat?"

     "Army-navy surplus. Why?"

     He nodded. "I'm going to need some I.D."

     I handed him my driver's license. He looked at it first bemusedly, then in irritation.

     "Boy, I've had some method actors come through here, but this has to be the best yet!"

     "Method acting, sir?" I asked, confused.

     He looked at me as if it should have been perfectly obvious. "You come in here dressed like someone from a historical documentary, you give me an address in a city that hasn't existed in a thousand years, and then you hand me a driver's license- a driver's license! Do you know when I last saw one of these, boy?"