Another Day (not Tuesday)

The late publication of the court circular threw out their plans. Even the most dedicated believer in the revolution had to pause and think before assassinating a dictator and his wife just after the arrival of their grandchild. Not a good look in propaganda terms at all.

The plans had been laid over months, though the decision to carry them out had been made over many years. Not only were people starving now, but hundreds more disappeared almost every week. The lucky ones ended up in the regime’s shiny new prisons. The others, perhaps in the desert lands east of Albuquerque, or in the ocean west of San Ana, dropped off one of the flights that had suddenly made one of the strips at John Wayne airport unusually busy during the last twelve months. No doubt the Duke himself would have approved. It was his characters that believed in summary justice of course, but his own pronouncements suggested that he wouldn’t have been too far out of step with them.

It had been five years since a supine Congress had been cajoled into creating the space for a ‘benevolent ruler’. The geopolitical crisis had necessitated it they said. Democratic systems were just not fit for purpose in the current situation. It was sold as a temporary measure of course. There seemed little prospect of an end any time soon.

Slowly the disparate resistance groups evolved ways of maintaining some contact with each other. People had to see that some form of organized opposition existed, so smaller acts of defiance began to emerge. Demonstrations had become too dangerous. Snatch squads operated with impunity. So, passivity had largely taken hold. The explosions, small at first, were mainly targeted at oil refineries and corporate HQs, but as volunteers grew more impatient there had been direct attacks on the homes and families of some of the lesser apparatchiks surrounding the leader himself.

The day had looked auspicious enough. Leaked intelligence had him at a comparatively soft location. Opening one of the many ‘arts’ venues that he had renamed after himself or one of his simpering children. He hated the arts of course, so this was his idea of revenge. This building had some vulnerabilities, most obviously an ancient fly tower that was hard to completely police. It had so many nooks and crannies that could be made accessible by a brave stage manager with the right accreditation.

The planning involved the recruitment of someone with enough flexibility and courage to hide out at great height in a narrow space for several hours. And willing to risk whatever might come next of course.

The prize was great though. A galvanizing of popular support for the movement. The leader had replacements in waiting of course, but perhaps not with the utter ruthlessness that he possessed. Given the extent of the growing repression, it had to be risked and there were people willing to give their life if necessary.

Then came the simple message, just moments before the sniper was to be smuggled into place. The child had been born and acclaimed on the networks, despite the circular being late. The coded text followed just in time: Not Tuesday.

It would have to be another day.