Remy wakes up. He frantically gropes for the poignard hidden in the lining of his mattress. Ah. There it is. He comforts in the weight of the steel blade, the feel of the leather grip.
He tests the point with the tip of his finger and draws a little blood.
Like every morning.
It is 6:00 o’clock. By 9:00 Remy will be done with the preparations for breakfast for his lord and will, after a short break, commence with the preparations for dinner.
His lord, Monsieur LaCroix, will have lunch in his office in Paris where Remy’s colleague, Gizem, undoubtedly already runs her kitchen with the cold fury of the displaced.
First things first. Few people know that tomatoes once were red as blood and not bitter as Remy’s heart. Remy remembers his first time with a real tomato the way most young men and women remember their first kiss.
These days there is only one place where a discerning cook can get his hands on a tomato like that and it is not on planet.
Remy looks out of the drone window as it speeds over the desolate landscape of his beloved France. Where once bubbling streams flowed through a sea of golden wheat now concrete roads cut through a sea of steel.
I should be in my kitchen, he thinks, not out here purchasing fruits.
But the last purchaser Remy trusted ran off with his wife, Melusine, and now he trusts himself only.
The drone reaches the Wormhole terminal and, with a quick bribe, Remy skips ahead of the emigration queue for Delta Pavonis.
The change is breathtaking, as usual. Grey skies turn blue, an explosion of forest scents, and, perhaps most telling, no sooty faces beyond the quarantined entrances.
It’s a ten minute trip to anywhere from the Wormhole gate, for Delta Pavonis’ one town is still small enough to remind Remy of old American frontier towns.
Except for the clean, eco-integrated look, of course.
“Salam, Remy, my boy,” says Mister Ndlovu, the old farmer, in Arabic, the lingua franca of this new world.
“And to you,” Remy replies in the same language.
“How have you been?” asks Ndlovu while he prepares the tomatoes for transport. Theirs is a well-rehearsed transaction.
“My disdain waxes as the world wanes,” Remy shrugs.
“Stay here with us. We can use a man of your skills. You don’t have to fight this dying war.” There is an urgency in the old Ndebele’s voice and pity in his eyes.
“Thank you my friend. There are things I must do to live with myself.”
They shake hands and half an hour later Remy is back in his kitchen in Monsieur LaCroix’ manor.
It is 8:00 o’clock and for the next hour Remy conducts the symphony of the French gentleman’s breakfast.
At 9:15 he sips his cortado and waits for the call. It comes every morning and he dreads it with the dull fear of repeated torture.
The servant sticks his head through the kitchen door. He looks at Remy and Remy stretches and goes to his lord.
“Good morning, Remy.”
“Good morning, my lord”
“The breakfast was excellent as usual.”
“Thank you, my lord”
“Our French soil continues to raise the tastiest poultry and the juiciest fruits. We are truly blessed.”
“Yes, my lord.” Remy hates food racists almost as much as other racists.
“Good. We will continue to hunt down and remove importers.”
“Yes. My lord.” Remy’s cheek itches where a bead of sweat rolls toward his chin.
“Oh and don’t bother with dinner,” says LaCroix. “I will have a meeting with that Kosovo swine of the European Security Council. He’ll undoubtedly try to tell me off again for the nuclear waste disposal we are attempting.”
Remy is in his room, on his bed. His hands shake. There are tears in his eyes. He loves his country.
He retrieves the poignard from inside the mattress. He presses it against his chest and recites the oath of the revolution.
He slides the weapon under his sleeve and secures it with Velcro straps.
Tomorrow.
He loves his country.
Mega hart!
That’s an excellent story, well written