The Jefferson Allegiance

The Surgeon

Across the Potomac River in Washington DC, the growing darkness and thick swirling snow almost obscured the dark red object resting on the copper plate capping the Zero Milestone, due south of the White House.  Drawing closer, the old man, pale in the freezing January cold, blanched as he realized he was looking at a human heart on top of the waist-high, stone marker.  Rising steam fought with climate, and the warmth won, indicating that the heart still yearned for its owner.  The man halted, startled as much by the living voice as the newly dead heart.

“Did you bring me flowers?”

The old man turned in the direction of the sensuous voice, in one hand holding a half-empty bottle of cognac, in the other three roses.  A short, wraith-like figure followed the voice, her long black cloak matching the darkening heart behind him.  Her face was hidden by a hood, all but her piercing eyes and the look.  Perceptive people would recognize the look; that this was a person without a soul, without a conscience.  The man was perceptive.  His fate was sealed, but like all mortals, he refused to accept it. 

“You are not Lucius.”  His shock caused him to state the obvious.

“I was sent in his place.  I assume you brought the Jefferson Cipher rod and your disks.”  She came to a halt a few paces away.  “Should I call you the Philosopher Chair?” 

The wind blew cold across the man’s scalp, no longer covered by his once thick hair.  It hurt for him to stand tall, his body bent with the years, but he did so to face her.  “You assume incorrectly.”

“About which?”

“I do not have the rod or the disks.”

“But you are the Chair.”  A statement of fact, but he felt compelled to respond anyway.

“Yes.”

“The Philosopher you were to meet gave me his disks.”

“You lie.”

The woman pulled back her hood, revealing short blonde hair and an angelic face, incongruous with the absolute darkness in her eyes.  She cocked her head slightly and stared as if he were some crossword puzzle to be solved:  difficult, but one she would still do in ink, then discard, to move on to the next challenge.  “Where is the Cipher rod and your disks?”

“Where is your master, Lucius?” he demanded.

“I am here in his stead.”

He shook his head, glancing at the heart.  “I am to meet Lucius and negotiate a deal.  Things have gone too far.  We must work out a compromise to keep the truce and--”

“I don’t make policy,” the woman cut him off. 

The Chair looked left and right, his guts now as cold as his skin.  A dim set of headlights made their way down 15th Street, but the brutal winter storm was keeping almost everyone at home or inside.  They were inside their own enclosed snow globe.