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Apr. 6th, 2007 07:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skygiantsI owe several people fics. I have not forgotten about these! They will be up later today or tomorrow. I also have a ten-page first draft of a creative short story due on Wednesday, as well as a three-page original short story due Monday. To this I say, ahahahaha.
For now, however, I have succumbed to the tempting allure, held out originally by Jo and then exemplified by Feather and Jez, of Wasteland futurefic.
On the first day of negotiations, everyone had politely introduced themselves. The military officers gave name, rank, and unit. The Council members had each given their names, and nothing else.
Someone had suggested nametags. Someone else, a hotheaded young vampire, had suggested that perhaps the next tags would require them to state their social security number and post-mutation species. Negotiations on the first day had gone downhill from there. Still, as the Major General conceded later to the Colonel, it was a good idea on the part of the ragtag civilians to present a unified front, rather than dividing themselves according to pack, gang, leadership status. It would take the other side that much longer, in theory, to try to find the places where that unified front might be pried apart.
In theory. In practice, identifying the role that many of the Council members played in the running of the city was far from difficult. The one with the cigarettes and the leather jacket clearly led one of the larger Packs; the small, crisp woman in white obviously had something to do with medical care; the sleek one with the high heels screamed 'high-power vampire'. And so on.
Among so many high-profile citizens, Preston Vasquez – quiet, late twenties, lycanthrope – didn’t draw a great deal of attention. “Three to one he’s somebody’s beta,” said the Major General the first night to his second-in-command, a little dismissively. “Alpha couldn’t take the time to show and sent him instead.”
As the days stretched into weeks trapped in a small, hot room debating various issues with very little headway, however, the Major General started to make it his business to learn everything he could about everyone on of the Council. This included Preston Vasquez – still not the most interesting of the Council members, not by far, but apparently a young man to be watched nonetheless, mostly because they couldn’t seem to find out much about his life in Chicago. He didn’t belong to any of the packs. Although he spoke earnestly at times in the negotiations, he remained one of the very few on either side who had not yet publicly lost his temper. And it seemed, from all they could discover, that his position at that dangerous center of public discontent, the Wasteland, consisted mostly of playing bass.
By the time they were six weeks into the negotiations, the Major General was getting frustrated. He had expected to have driven a wedge into Chicago’s center of command by now; under directed pressure, he had thought the makeshift Council would collapse with little effort and bring the troublesome city nicely back under military aegis. It seemed increasingly clear that this was not going to be the case. More creative steps would have to be taken.
With that in mind, the Major General drew up a short-list of people to arrange a private meeting with. One of these was Preston Vasquez.
“Mr. Vasquez,” said the Major General, offering him a glass of beer (even the top brass couldn’t shake up good wine for schmoozing, these days) “I’m glad to have a chance to talk to you.”
“I’m always happy to talk,” said Preston, amiably. He accepted the beer, but didn’t take a sip. “Got a conversational topic in mind?”
The Major General smiled. “Let’s talk about your city.”
Preston thought about this. “Is it the city itself that you want to talk about,” he asked, eventually, with great politeness, “or the independent republic which the city currently constitutes?”
This kind of language had been in the air since the first threatened deportations a week ago, and the Major General was already heartily sick of it. But he kept his temper. “They’re separate things, in your mind?”
“Well, it’s the social entity and the political,” Preston explained. “If it’s the city itself that you’re asking about, I can give you great recommendations about nightlife.” He seemed to be perfectly serious.
“And what if it was the independent republic that I wanted to talk to you about?” asked the Major General, leaning forward in his chair. “As a member of the council of that republic? Needless to say we’ll leave aside the question of whether you can legally claim to be independent of the United States for now.”
Preston tugged on his goatee, looking rather apologetic and not at all like one of the members of the ruling government of an independent republic. “That kind of discussion should probably be saved for the negotiations. Sure you don’t want the nightlife recommendations instead?”
The Major General decided to take a different approach. “Speaking of nightlife, I understand that your occupation is – bass player?” This received a nod, but no further comments. “But surely that can’t be all you do. How would you describe your role in the government?”
There was a considering pause, combined with an extremely canine headtilt. “I guess,” said Preston, finally, “you could call me something of a lobbyist.” He grinned, and added, “Unfortunately I’ve never had the big bucks of the tobacco industry. Not that they’d need much lobbying for, these days. Smoking is very postapocalyptic chic.”
This was decidedly off-topic. “You seem very well versed in the ins and outs of prewar American government, Mr. Vasquez,” said the Major General, yanking it back around firmly to the relevant. “You’re obviously a man who believes in democracy.”
“I am.” The answer was simple and without irony.
“Then how can you be a part of this – idiotic separation movement?” The Major General shook his head, sadly. “There is no way to rebuild except through unity. Surely you must understand this. If you truly believe in democracy, in America -”
“Martial law is actually not very democratic,” said Preston Vasquez. His voice was very polite, and almost apologetic, again, as if obliged to point out an unpleasant truth to an enthusiastic child who has somehow overlooked it.
The Major General shook his head again; two could play at this game. “You’re an intelligent man, I know, and you must understand that it’s more complicated than that. This country has rules that must be followed in order that democracy be preserved. Once we have achieved safety for all citizens, of course the normal order will be reinstated.”
“We've talked about this in the negotiation room,” said Preston, “and I’m sure we’ll talk about it again – uh, is there a particular reason you wanted to remind me of all this?”
“Mr. Vasquez,” said the Major General, frowning, “you are an American citizen, yes?”
There was long pause, during which the knowledge of Suleyman Raji’s somewhat more complicated interview hung in the air – something on which Mr. Vasquez had been extremely, if always mildly, vocal in the negotiation chamber.
“That’s a loaded question,” Preston said eventually. “I was, definitely. Born in Monterey. For those who choose to recognize Chicago as independent, I guess I’m now a citizen of Chicago.” He raised his eyebrows. “We’ve never objected to dual citizenship. I don’t know about the US of A’s stance on it these days.”
The Major General laughed, at that. “Relax – there’s no question of deporting you. Of course your nationality and place of birth are on file. But it’s a pertinent issue, don’t you think, the question of citizenship?” He gestured, and his second-in-command brought forward the file in question.
“An interesting question,” agreed Preston, who was now looking a little wary. “Another one, maybe, that should be debated over in –”
“Mr. Vasquez,” said the Major General, interrupting, “do you want to know the real reason that I asked to talk to you?”
Preston was silent.
“It’s because, while looking over your file, I remembered something curious. It seems that there’s a young lady in one of the state refugee orphanages in San Francisco –”
Preston was, by this point, sitting extremely straight and extremely still.
“- who was identified last year as Elena Vasquez.”
Silence. But the Major General took note of the look on young Mr. Vasquez’s face, and felt moderately triumphant.
“It’s possible it could be a coincidence,” he went on. “I understand it’s not an uncommon name. But I thought that you might be interested in this information. If she is the same Elena mentioned in your file, she should of course be transferred to your care as next-of-kin as soon as possible; otherwise, she’ll be cared for in the orphanage until she reaches her majority and becomes no longer a ward of the state.”
There was a long, frozen pause before the man across from the Major General seemed to come back to himself. “What information,” he asked, quietly, “do you have on – on the girl in San Francisco?”
“Ah,” said the Major General, “well, that’s the difficulty, isn’t it. Because of course it wouldn’t be very ethical to give out personal information on an American citizen – and a minor, no less – to a member of a foreign government. Not to mention the question of deporting an American citizen to a foreign country.” He paused, and added, “I’m very sorry, Mr. Vasquez. I understand what your feelings must be on the matter, but that is how the situation currently stands. Of course it will change once Chicago is -”
Preston Vasquez’s voice was very, very mild, as he rose, cutting off the Major General.
“Then,” he said, “I guess immigration procedures are one of the things we’ll have to include in our negotiations.”
He turned and walked out of the room, an aide scrambling to follow. Which was always one way that this could have gone, although, the Major General had to admit, not the result for which he had hoped.
When the aide reported back to tell him that the man had gone through a lycanthropic change not three feet out of the Major General’s headquarters, however, the Major General decided that at least there was this – Preston Vasquez had, finally, lost his temper.
. . . it got longer than I was expecting.
For now, however, I have succumbed to the tempting allure, held out originally by Jo and then exemplified by Feather and Jez, of Wasteland futurefic.
On the first day of negotiations, everyone had politely introduced themselves. The military officers gave name, rank, and unit. The Council members had each given their names, and nothing else.
Someone had suggested nametags. Someone else, a hotheaded young vampire, had suggested that perhaps the next tags would require them to state their social security number and post-mutation species. Negotiations on the first day had gone downhill from there. Still, as the Major General conceded later to the Colonel, it was a good idea on the part of the ragtag civilians to present a unified front, rather than dividing themselves according to pack, gang, leadership status. It would take the other side that much longer, in theory, to try to find the places where that unified front might be pried apart.
In theory. In practice, identifying the role that many of the Council members played in the running of the city was far from difficult. The one with the cigarettes and the leather jacket clearly led one of the larger Packs; the small, crisp woman in white obviously had something to do with medical care; the sleek one with the high heels screamed 'high-power vampire'. And so on.
Among so many high-profile citizens, Preston Vasquez – quiet, late twenties, lycanthrope – didn’t draw a great deal of attention. “Three to one he’s somebody’s beta,” said the Major General the first night to his second-in-command, a little dismissively. “Alpha couldn’t take the time to show and sent him instead.”
As the days stretched into weeks trapped in a small, hot room debating various issues with very little headway, however, the Major General started to make it his business to learn everything he could about everyone on of the Council. This included Preston Vasquez – still not the most interesting of the Council members, not by far, but apparently a young man to be watched nonetheless, mostly because they couldn’t seem to find out much about his life in Chicago. He didn’t belong to any of the packs. Although he spoke earnestly at times in the negotiations, he remained one of the very few on either side who had not yet publicly lost his temper. And it seemed, from all they could discover, that his position at that dangerous center of public discontent, the Wasteland, consisted mostly of playing bass.
By the time they were six weeks into the negotiations, the Major General was getting frustrated. He had expected to have driven a wedge into Chicago’s center of command by now; under directed pressure, he had thought the makeshift Council would collapse with little effort and bring the troublesome city nicely back under military aegis. It seemed increasingly clear that this was not going to be the case. More creative steps would have to be taken.
With that in mind, the Major General drew up a short-list of people to arrange a private meeting with. One of these was Preston Vasquez.
“Mr. Vasquez,” said the Major General, offering him a glass of beer (even the top brass couldn’t shake up good wine for schmoozing, these days) “I’m glad to have a chance to talk to you.”
“I’m always happy to talk,” said Preston, amiably. He accepted the beer, but didn’t take a sip. “Got a conversational topic in mind?”
The Major General smiled. “Let’s talk about your city.”
Preston thought about this. “Is it the city itself that you want to talk about,” he asked, eventually, with great politeness, “or the independent republic which the city currently constitutes?”
This kind of language had been in the air since the first threatened deportations a week ago, and the Major General was already heartily sick of it. But he kept his temper. “They’re separate things, in your mind?”
“Well, it’s the social entity and the political,” Preston explained. “If it’s the city itself that you’re asking about, I can give you great recommendations about nightlife.” He seemed to be perfectly serious.
“And what if it was the independent republic that I wanted to talk to you about?” asked the Major General, leaning forward in his chair. “As a member of the council of that republic? Needless to say we’ll leave aside the question of whether you can legally claim to be independent of the United States for now.”
Preston tugged on his goatee, looking rather apologetic and not at all like one of the members of the ruling government of an independent republic. “That kind of discussion should probably be saved for the negotiations. Sure you don’t want the nightlife recommendations instead?”
The Major General decided to take a different approach. “Speaking of nightlife, I understand that your occupation is – bass player?” This received a nod, but no further comments. “But surely that can’t be all you do. How would you describe your role in the government?”
There was a considering pause, combined with an extremely canine headtilt. “I guess,” said Preston, finally, “you could call me something of a lobbyist.” He grinned, and added, “Unfortunately I’ve never had the big bucks of the tobacco industry. Not that they’d need much lobbying for, these days. Smoking is very postapocalyptic chic.”
This was decidedly off-topic. “You seem very well versed in the ins and outs of prewar American government, Mr. Vasquez,” said the Major General, yanking it back around firmly to the relevant. “You’re obviously a man who believes in democracy.”
“I am.” The answer was simple and without irony.
“Then how can you be a part of this – idiotic separation movement?” The Major General shook his head, sadly. “There is no way to rebuild except through unity. Surely you must understand this. If you truly believe in democracy, in America -”
“Martial law is actually not very democratic,” said Preston Vasquez. His voice was very polite, and almost apologetic, again, as if obliged to point out an unpleasant truth to an enthusiastic child who has somehow overlooked it.
The Major General shook his head again; two could play at this game. “You’re an intelligent man, I know, and you must understand that it’s more complicated than that. This country has rules that must be followed in order that democracy be preserved. Once we have achieved safety for all citizens, of course the normal order will be reinstated.”
“We've talked about this in the negotiation room,” said Preston, “and I’m sure we’ll talk about it again – uh, is there a particular reason you wanted to remind me of all this?”
“Mr. Vasquez,” said the Major General, frowning, “you are an American citizen, yes?”
There was long pause, during which the knowledge of Suleyman Raji’s somewhat more complicated interview hung in the air – something on which Mr. Vasquez had been extremely, if always mildly, vocal in the negotiation chamber.
“That’s a loaded question,” Preston said eventually. “I was, definitely. Born in Monterey. For those who choose to recognize Chicago as independent, I guess I’m now a citizen of Chicago.” He raised his eyebrows. “We’ve never objected to dual citizenship. I don’t know about the US of A’s stance on it these days.”
The Major General laughed, at that. “Relax – there’s no question of deporting you. Of course your nationality and place of birth are on file. But it’s a pertinent issue, don’t you think, the question of citizenship?” He gestured, and his second-in-command brought forward the file in question.
“An interesting question,” agreed Preston, who was now looking a little wary. “Another one, maybe, that should be debated over in –”
“Mr. Vasquez,” said the Major General, interrupting, “do you want to know the real reason that I asked to talk to you?”
Preston was silent.
“It’s because, while looking over your file, I remembered something curious. It seems that there’s a young lady in one of the state refugee orphanages in San Francisco –”
Preston was, by this point, sitting extremely straight and extremely still.
“- who was identified last year as Elena Vasquez.”
Silence. But the Major General took note of the look on young Mr. Vasquez’s face, and felt moderately triumphant.
“It’s possible it could be a coincidence,” he went on. “I understand it’s not an uncommon name. But I thought that you might be interested in this information. If she is the same Elena mentioned in your file, she should of course be transferred to your care as next-of-kin as soon as possible; otherwise, she’ll be cared for in the orphanage until she reaches her majority and becomes no longer a ward of the state.”
There was a long, frozen pause before the man across from the Major General seemed to come back to himself. “What information,” he asked, quietly, “do you have on – on the girl in San Francisco?”
“Ah,” said the Major General, “well, that’s the difficulty, isn’t it. Because of course it wouldn’t be very ethical to give out personal information on an American citizen – and a minor, no less – to a member of a foreign government. Not to mention the question of deporting an American citizen to a foreign country.” He paused, and added, “I’m very sorry, Mr. Vasquez. I understand what your feelings must be on the matter, but that is how the situation currently stands. Of course it will change once Chicago is -”
Preston Vasquez’s voice was very, very mild, as he rose, cutting off the Major General.
“Then,” he said, “I guess immigration procedures are one of the things we’ll have to include in our negotiations.”
He turned and walked out of the room, an aide scrambling to follow. Which was always one way that this could have gone, although, the Major General had to admit, not the result for which he had hoped.
When the aide reported back to tell him that the man had gone through a lycanthropic change not three feet out of the Major General’s headquarters, however, the Major General decided that at least there was this – Preston Vasquez had, finally, lost his temper.
. . . it got longer than I was expecting.
