Protection

I lift my finger from the button and take a step backwards, breathing 
heavily.  Just in time, I think.  Despite knowing otherwise, I still 
expect some kind of gratuitous explosion or blinding flash.  Sometimes 
things aren't what they seem.  It may be a cliche, but that doesn't make 
it any less true.

I slump against the cool gun-grey of the workstation, cocooned in the 
womb-like glow of the emergency lighting.  The silence feels like cotton 
wool; pure white, full of innocence, yet smothering.  My thoughts turn 
to my family, friends, people on the outside.  Do they know what is 
happening?

I reverse out of the inner lab, stumbling awkwardly.  In the confusion 
I've gained a deep oozing gash to the thigh.  This'll make me a proper 
hero, I think.  Purple heart - or whatever they're calling it these days 
- and everything.  Just another day for a soldier of the free world.  
The others must have reached the control room; the lights flicker on.  I 
set about repairing the overrides.  The outer lab has been turned upside 
down.  Decades of work lie scattered in peversely winking constellations 
of splintered glass and shattered components, like the glossy innards of 
a child's kaleidoscope.

I make my way downstairs, following a jewel-like trail of blood.  It 
leads via a convolution of corridors to the professor's office.  The 
workstation sits vacant, screen glowing furiously.  Go on, it seems 
to say, do your worst.  I've never been particularly enamoured with 
the infernal machines even at the best of times, let alone during 
moments of global crisis.  However, with several expertly selected 
keystrokes I doublecheck the encrypted files and establish the security 
of the system.

Echoing footsteps approach the far end of the office.  The piercing 
sunlight streaming through the office seques into eclipse as Deputy 
Security Officer Hobbs passes.  Hobnob we call him, because that's what 
he spends most his time doing.  He's never liked me.  He gives me a 
dismissive nod and moves on towards more important bigwigs.  Just 
another day for a soldier of the free world.

There's a murmur from somewhere near floor level.  I find the professor 
crumpled beside the synchotron, her torso copiously daubed with blood. 
It's funny the little things you notice at times like these.  The 
trickle of sweat running down my spine, the constant hum of the 
ventilation system, the smattering of freckles highlighted against the 
sickly pallor of her neck.  Her clammy hand grips my arm.

"Avon...," she whispers in recognition.

I crouch over her and caress her greying hair soothingly.  This is 
the woman I'd describe as my mentor if she didn't think it made her 
sound old.  Vanity is a killer.  I take the gun from my inside pocket 
and suck two bullets out of her chest, then plunge a discarded pencil 
into my thigh.  Just another day for a soldier of the free world.  I 
replace my gun and give a grunt.  It's hard to believe that people still 
use pencils in these enlightened times, but then I guess the professor 
is old school.  Her speed belies her age as she calmly grabs the pencil 
and returns it to her top pocket.  She leaps up and the side of my hand 
connects a glancing blow to her throat.  We stare at each other, her 
rheumy eyes granite-like.  Damn, she's smart.

"Era uoy ohw wonk I"

The professor looks grim.  Just another day for a soldier of the free 
world.  In that respect, I too am old school.  I casually sort through 
some papers.  Yawning, I leave the professor's office and make my way to 
the canteen.  

The air is filled with warmth, laughter and the comforting, rich aroma 
of coffee.  My last meal.  I savour a pastry and trade jokes with the 
colleagues I have worked with the past decade.  Babs Hoyle passes round 
a photo cube from her recent trip to the Bangkok Jazz Festival.  Dan 
Chandra slouches in his usual position next to the tea urn, still 
half-asleep.  Jimmy Deep, spluttering crumbs, mocks the physics in some 
new movie sequel.  I am calm.  It is for their protection.  

I am waved past security and set out to walk the short distance to my 
rooms.  My thoughts replay over the message I have just recorded.  We 
are soldiers of the Free World...We are willing to use stellar power to 
enforce this...If that is terrorism, then let history say that we are 
terrorists...We will not stand idly by and bear witness to this 
atrocity...We are soldiers of the Free World.