| Subject: Mea Culpa 2 REPOST |
Author:
Rox
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Date Posted: 11:29:09 12/08/01 Sat
In reply to:
Rox
's message, "Mea Culpa (Sequel to Unto Death)" on 16:09:49 12/07/01 Fri
Section One, January 28, 1985
A week later, Jurgen sat in Madeline’s office while Michael waited outside.
“So? Is he worth salvaging?” Madeline sat across from Jurgen with her arms folded.
“If we can keep him alive, yes.”
“Meaning?”
“I think he wants to die. I’ve seen it before. They call it survivor’s guilt.”
Madeline knew Jurgen spoke from personal experience. “You’ve seen his file.”
Jurgen nodded, his expression almost sympathetic. “He’s smart and picks up things quickly, but he shows no interest in anything. He’s torn up inside, and if he can’t get over it, he’ll be of no use to us. He’ll endanger any mission he’s on because he has no reason to live.”
Madeline nodded. “I agree. Please send him in. You can collect him in three hours. Anything else?”
Jurgen shrugged and pushed his long, lean body out of the chair. “Nope.”
Madeline smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “As always, a man of few words.”
Jurgen returned the smile faintly, then nodded. “I’ll be back at four.”
“Michael.” Madeline smiled up at him as he walked into her office and gestured for him to be seated. He was dressed all in black. It seemed to suit his demeanor. His face was like a mask, expressionless, save for the grief in those astonishing silver-green eyes.
“Jurgen says he’s pleased with your performance, but he’s worried about your motivation. Would you like to talk about it?”
“No,” came his soft, one-word answer
Michael watched her warily; Jurgen had managed to teach him to pay attention.
“Since I know the reason you are here, let me tell you why I’m here.” Madeline stopped in front of him. “I . . . murdered my sister.”
That got Michael’s full attention.
“I pushed her down a flight of stairs in a fight over a doll.” Madeline’s expression was suddenly sad. She walked back to her desk and sat on the corner of it.
“And now I’m here,” she gestured at the room around them.
Reaching out, she took his chin in her hand to keep his attention focused. “You may not know it yet, but Section is a godsend. I found purpose here. You can as well. You owe a debt, Michael, which must be paid. You know what you’ve done. Being sorry about it isn’t enough. You have to give back some of what you’ve taken. That’s what Section is all about.”
When she released him, she noticed a fading bruise just beneath his jaw line. Jurgen’s calling card, no doubt.
Madeline walked around her desk, seated herself and returned to her usual businesslike demeanor.
“You need to consider your future, Michael. To do that, you must consider your past. I want you to take some time tonight to think about what I’ve said. Now I would like you to brief me on your week with Jurgen… ”
Later that evening, Michael sat on the edge of his bed in the tiny room that Section provided and stared at the floor, remembering. . .
Paris, April 1984
“How can you be so naive?” Rene waved his arms across the small table for two, knocking over Michael’s coffee.
“I am not naive, Rene,” Michael returned softly, as he mopped up the mess with a small napkin. Sometimes Rene embarrassed Michael with his outbursts, but he knew his friend was sincere. “I just do not see how… ”
“That’s it! You do not see because you do not wish to see! Look at where the government spends its research dollars! How many cures for cancer have they produced? How many poor children have they saved from starvation? None! It all goes to the rich businessmen and to the military and to the corrupt government officials!”
Michael had no comment for there was truth in what Rene was saying -- he’d be a fool to deny it.
The grant Michael had been counting on getting had been snatched away at the last minute and given to François Benoit, another student who was working on a new explosive. Michael’s project had been the development of a new plastic filter that could more cheaply desalinate seawater, enabling several third-world nations to better irrigate their farmland. But to the government, the explosive had had more merit.
“Wake up, Michel! Look at the injustice that surrounds us! It must be stopped!”
With that too, Michael had to agree. Why couldn’t people see that spending money on death did no one any good? War was monstrous, wasteful, insane. It was so clear that anyone should be able to understand it, and yet wars continued and with them, disease, poverty and ignorance.
“Michel, we can change these injustices. We must! Look at the Americans! Viet Nam was stopped – ended – because of students who fought for the right to be heard. War is insanity! They stopped a war, Michel! If they can do that, can we do less? Why not use our resources to do good? Feed children, cure the sick, give better wages to those who work!”
Michael nodded with a sigh; Rene was right. “But how do we change the world, Rene? Words are words -- no one listens to what we say. They don’t even take us seriously. Not even the strikers we supported last week; they were grateful -- for what? That we carried them toilet paper and clean shirts?” Michael tossed his soggy napkin inside his empty coffee cup with disgust.
“We must talk to them in a language they understand, Michel. Give them back the poison they produce in their own cups and make them drink it!”
“What do you mean?” Michael asked, tucking a lock of rusty brown hair behind one ear.
“Do you agree that students should not be making bombs when they could be saving lives?” Rene’s eyebrows lifted with his question.
“Of course, but… ”
“C’est bien! If they love bombs so much, perhaps they should see firsthand what they do!”
Michael sighed, knowing the speech to come. Rene was full of words and causes. Freedom for everything! The world was unfair -- fix it! But Rene surprised Michael for once by speaking gently instead.
“Michel, look at you. You needed that grant money. They have stolen the bread from your sister and brother’s mouths. What will you do now?”
Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. There is enough money for another month, perhaps two, if I am careful. I have hopes of another assistantship, if I graduate with honor.”
He sighed deeply then continued. “Etienne wants to quit school and find a job, but he’s only 15. Monique gave me the money she made babysitting to help pay for electricity this month. She’s only 11, Rene! She has no new clothes… ” He paused a moment, before adding with a catch in his voice, “she cries herself to sleep at night.”
“And still they refuse to pay you your father’s pension?”
“They say they can’t pay me because I’m 21 and attending university. If I quit, of course, then they will pay. But I can’t quit! Not now. My parents worked too hard to send me here. I only have a few more months left.”
Rene reached into his pockets and pulled out several tattered bills -- 80 francs -- and handed them to Michael.
“Non… ” Michael began, knowing it was all the money Rene had, but Rene interrupted.
“It is not for you! It is for Monique. Buy her a new dress.”
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