| snipers plucked the traffic off the street. all the way to the church, no one on the curb. nothing but a black fleet. boxy, built like bison. flags on their hoods, flexan one-way windows, a hide of kevlar. and she was in the middle car. still so young and featureless, and her face would still be round for years. but the gown was all exuberance and lace--a star to the eye, as white as money could buy. the guard sitting opposite leaned in. smiled and tweaked her chin. "can't complain, at any rate," he said. "daughter of the chairman, married to the state . . . ." that seemed to say it all. but the girl didn't hear a sound. the baby-blush was flushed from her expression; she now matched her gown. they rolled on. the wedding would be soon. a preist, a pen, and the groom? sprawled out in every house, every base, every single heart. and as the fleet careened, invincible tires screaming at every turn, no one saw her dress caught in the door. it flapped like her own bloodless flag--a beacon of distress, a signal to the peepers, a surrender. but no one saw it. no one, that is, except george. |