For Misha

Captain William Braxford:

My dear friend, if you are reading this letter then I am sure you have killed me. I congratulate you. I don’t know what day it is, but I hope it reads well on my gravestone. You always see those people there who have had the bad luck to die on some odd sounding day of the year, like January 23rd, 2507. Too many syllables. Give me a May 1st any day.

Will, I want you to understand that I never once wished any harm to the Confederacy. Truly, I had no choice in the matter, and I spent every waking moment trying to think of a plan to turn things around. I hope you can see that... I will not say that you would have done the same in my place, but know that I leave you not with regret, not with anger - but with joy. Joy because my threat is no more.

All these years we served under the flag. The brown, blue, and green. The Star and the Key. Did we ever figure out what it meant? What we stood for? What we fought for? I never did. But absence of reason, I’ve found, is no cause to abandon belief. I hope that you find the same.

I say [i]served under the flag[/i], but in your case perhaps I should say [i]will continue to serve[/i]. I pray you will. But nevertheless, you will go your way, and I of course, mine. I’m hoping I’ll see you after this life, but if fate has it that we split ways, I hope that it is you who finds an eternity in the presence of God. I know you never bought into that “religious crap,” but humor a dead man.

I am sure that I owe you my account of the past few months. Rather, you owe it to [i]yourself[/i] to read my explanation.

They came in the early days of the year. Black suits and the whole routine. One of them was tall, dark skinned, short black hair and all that. The other was medium height, but solid as a rock. Well, they wore the badges of the Confederacy and asked if I was alone. I said yes and invited them in. Misha was at that dancing convention - you remember, we went clubbing the night after she left. Stupid idea. Was it mine or yours? My God, I do ramble on. Well, I figured that these men were going to give me some sort of special mission. A chance to move up in the ranks, maybe make Captain. I remember thinking how you would react. The both of us, Captains in the Corps...

So I invited the fellows in, thought maybe I’d bring out some drinks or something. My invitation, it seemed, went completely unheeded. They pushed right by me and started checking the entire place out. They asked me, of all things, if my place was wired. That made me wonder. It’s down in our constitution somewhere that we have the right to record whatever we want in our own homes. I know, I looked into it afterwards. Thought maybe I could find a legal loophole.

‘Standard security system is all,’ I answer. And apparently that’s some sort of indication that they need to close all my shades and shut down my power hub. Well, by now I’m a bit upset as I’m sure you can understand. I’ve never been one to be pushed around by anyone, unless clear reason can be shown, and Misha was supposed to return from dance class at any minute.

‘What’s the meaning of all this?’ I say finally losing my temper. I find myself sprawled out on the floor in response, the mark of the raygun still burning in my side. I don’t remember which one did it, but I wanted the bastard dead. But they throw this file next to my face, even as I writhe there, and ask me to open it. The tall one moves off to inspect the rest of my house, and starts fiddling with the trinkets on my mantelpiece. Then he’s off somewhere else, waving a sensor around like a madman and pushing buttons into its display.

I opened the file, expecting some sort of fabricated criminal evidence against me. Why else would Confederate officers assault their own soldiers? But it wasn’t evidence. It wasn’t a mission briefing either, as I had thought earlier. They were pictures.

You have to understand, Will. They had Misha. The whole time, they had Misha. What was I supposed to do? I tried to think of a way to let HQ know that I was under the thumb, but they put a patch on my system. Anything wired to me was forwarded to them. Anything recorded by me as well. And I couldn’t risk it. My Misha! She had asked me to go with her that week. To the dance thing. But I wanted to party with the guys. I could have protected her, done something...

So they lay it out for me, plain and simple. I give them HQ schematics, they give me Misha. They must have thought me a moron. I bring them the schematics and they let me go? Please.

They ask me if everything’s clear. I lie and say yes. They hit me with the raygun anyway. And that was the last I saw of them. They always sent two new guys, or had me meet at this restaurant, or that diner.

I got the names of a few. Pseudonyms, of course, but I hope they help. I hope you neutralize the bastards.

Jonah, dark skinned, a little over 6 feet tall, slim build, short black hair.

Barry, medium build, maybe 5’8”, short brown curls.

Sean, medium build, maybe 5’10”, short blonde curls.

Hunt, 5’4”, bald

Walsh, 5’8”, large dragon tattoo on right wrist, probably all the way up his arm too.

Charlie, unknown height (I only saw him seated), but a scar on his nose, left side.

I regret to say that you were too late. I already gave them the schematics to HQ. I doctored them up a bit, enough for you to lay a trap in the East wing, but they’re getting a lot of free information with it as is. I’m sorry. If you take a look at the eastern underground access tunnel, it has a checkpoint in it. In the fakes I gave them, I edited it out. That’s where they’ll go, I know it. If you set up a post you should be able at least to detain anyone with the characteristics I mentioned above. Hopefully you get them.

If you find Misha, tell her that I love her and I’m sorry. And if you could, friend, lay a single white rose on my grave so that I’ll know she’s well. Trust me, I’ll know. I doubt I’ll be buried with any honors, but I’m okay with that. You’ll have to try and get me in the Rosewood Cemetery. You know, the one close by, with the poplar trees.

You were always a brother to me, Will. You were a saint. Whatever you do, don’t feel bad for taking my life - it had to be done. Even God can understand that.

Your brother in arms,

Michael

P.S. “I pray you, in your reports, when you shall these unlucky deeds relate, speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak of one that loved not wisely but too well.” It’s Shakespeare. You always did love Shakespeare